


all we care about is talking

by Babydoll Ria (Babydoll_Ria)



Series: Panem Elite [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arranged Marriage, F/F, F/M, Fashion Week, Gossip Girl - Freeform, Inheritance, Money, elite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:33:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Babydoll_Ria/pseuds/Babydoll%20Ria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We can have the world that you can never have, only we never get the one thing you can have. And you can never hate me more than I hate myself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_milliners_rook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_milliners_rook/gifts), [sarsaparillia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarsaparillia/gifts).



> Young Folks by Peter Bjorn and John

I don’t expect you to understand our world.

It’s a different one. We’re the ones you look at, at the society page draped a long with all the money and clothes.

We’re not the Kardashians or the Hiltons.

But we are the society elite. The heirs, the rich kids. We are the less than one percent.

The blue bloods.

You hate us. It’s really no secret.

And yes, we hate each other too.

But it’s our world. And we didn’t have a say in it.

There’s the Golden Boy of the West Coast.  The Maneater of Manhattan.   Sante Fe’s ballerina. The Foodie from New England.

And you want to know what it’s like?

Believe me you have no idea.

* * *

 

I don’t like New York City. At all.

It’s so big, and cold and chrome. The people have no problem staring at us, those at least who recognize me.

They all recognize my mother.

My mother is a designer. She designs Fourth, but before that she is a Cresta.

In the nineteen seventies, the Crestas  who are upper class nobility in Spain, let their only daughter cross the ocean and coming to America.

It has been a bit more than four decades, when Mamá left Spain. And in those four years we found out one Uncle is sterile, the other is gay. Thus that means I am the heir to the Cresta line.

And even in America, being noble and a distant cousin of the King of Spain is a very important connection.

Although forty-five people will have to die before I become queen.

And there is the small problem in my complete lack of social skills.

I love Santa Fe. I miss it.

But we have to be here for Fashion Week. 

Which means I have to see Finnick Odair and Johanna Mason.

I don’t like seeing them.

Johanna for one is predictably unpredictable. When we were children, everyone thought she was the one who was bullied, but really it was me. Johanna is a much better actress.

She is also the closest thing I have to a best friend.

Johanna’s parents are real estate moguls, which is all fine and dandy. But they also came from England, and from them there is blue blood, and that is why I am allowed to associate with Johanna.

She is, as my mother would say, a fellow noble in America.

She is studying Journalism, something that drives everyone crazy. No one likes a journalist. No one.

Finnick Odair is the one person I hate more than anything.

He’s good looking, and charming, and he has never met a girl who he hasn’t slept with. Not even Johanna, though Johanna swears up and down he’s bad in bed.

Not even me.

I lost my virginity to Finnick Odair in my bedroom when I was fifteen. I thought he loved me. He didn’t.

Because the next day he went home with two girls whom none of us actually know.

I have been steadfastly ignoring him for now six years, gleefully able to avoid him because when his father died, his grandmother fought his mother for custody of seventeen year old Finnick, and moved him back to Ireland.

He’s only just come back to America to do his Master’s in business at Columbia.

‘Well look at the twig.’ Johanna calls from her seat in the lounge in the St. Regis. ‘You almost look like an adult in those heels.’

I tighten my grip on my clutch, as Mamá clucks her tongue, Johanna lives in the city, so I can only assume she is in the lounge to welcome me.

‘[Su ruedo es mucho más corto. Ella está mostrando todo a todos con sus piernas como esas](http://archiveofourown.org/works/).’ Mamá says disapprovingly in my ear.

And it’s true, Johanna’s leather skirt is much too short, and she’s sitting with her legs wide open, giving everyone a view of her thong. And by her smirk, she’s doing it intentionally.

‘Johanna.’ I say in greeting. ‘I haven’t seen you in months.’

I cross to her and I kiss the air by her cheek, before Johanna grabs my wrist and sits me down beside her.

‘Is it alright Auntie Carla, if Annie stays for a drink?’ Johanna says, all sugary sweet. Mamá returns the smile with something as equally artificial.

‘Of course querido,’ Mamá smiles. ‘But Ana must be back before seven. We have dinner with the Odairs then.’

It’s the last Mamá says before she gets swallowed by the elevator and I feel like I have been hit by a truck.

‘Shit.’ Johanna exhales. ‘Your mom’s pissed. She called you Ana.’

‘It’s my name.’ I say, waving for a gin and tonic. ‘And it’s fashion week. And it’s Mags Odair.’

Mags Odair is really the only word needed to explain my mother’s outburst.

Mags Odair is over eighty, and is still in full control of the Odair brewery, which is the second leading brand of beer in the world after Guiness.  She also managed to win full custody over Finnick and socially destroy his godawful mother.

‘But who actually calls you Ana?’ Johanna asks, sipping her martini. ‘No one. You’ve been Annie since you were like three.’

Finnick started it. As children, Finnick lived in Woodside California, and I was in Santa Fe. We were closest to each other, because Finnick’s father Reilly, was Mamá’s best friend.  Somehow.

Johanna grew up on the East Coast.

‘I’m more worried about dinner than having to wonder my mother used by full name.’ I say, and I almost inhale the gin and tonic.

‘Because of Mags?’ We people watch, and Johanna adjusts her posture so people can’t see up her skirt. I think she only did it to piss of my mother. ‘Or because of Finn?’

I stay quite.

It’s an uncomfortable cocktail of both. Mags Odair scares me. And Finnick is my enemy.

I suppose Johanna understands my discomfort, because she changes the subject easily.  

‘Have you heard about the new girl?’

‘No?’ I don’t pay attention to the social circles, only the odd text message from Johanna lets me know if there is a big scandal.

But then again, I’m not like the other society people. I don’t pay attention to the gossip, mainly because I don’t care.

I don’t do much, besides read, and dance and paint.  I study ballet at Julliard, but I’m only in New York for the academic year.

‘So, do you remember Violet Cunningham?’ Johanna says conversationally, I try to fit the name to a face but it’s not working.

I give up and try to place the surname. It’s vaguely familiar. ‘Something to do with medicine?’

Johanna sighs. ‘Yeah, sort of. More like the Cunningham’s funded the first few hospitals on the East Coast.’

‘And?’

‘Okay, so like Violet Cunningham is the only child right? And when’s she at university, she meets this guy. He’s not a U. He’s not even an M. No, he’s a miner.  A coal miner, anyway they fall madly in love, get married, she gets disowned and disappears from everyone. And then he died, like six years ago? And apparently Violet Cunningham-Everdeen now, has decided she wants back into the club.’

‘Why?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know.’ Johanna shrugs, ‘Money. She missed her family. Who gives a fuck? All that matters is that she’s back. My Mom’s throwing a hissy fit but that’s nothing to what the bitch of the bakery is doing.’

‘Mrs. Mellark? Why is she so mad?’

Johanna leans in like she has a juicy secret. ‘Because Mr. M and Violet were engaged, and the only reason why she got to marry Mr. M was because he was so upset he got her preggers.’

I blink. I still don’t know why this is important.

‘So?’

‘Well the new girl, Katniss-seriously who the fuck names their kid Katniss?- she’s only like sixteen but she’s coming to Fashion Week and my mom says I have to show her around.’

I get it then. In her weird way, Johanna is trying to tell me that Fashion Week, something we both hate, she won’t be around me. That means we can’t make fun of the weird trends and the un-wear ability of high fashion. She’s letting me know she’s not replacing me in a roundabout way, but rather forced to babysit.

‘I can always hang backstage with my Mom.’ I say, ‘But the after party?’

It’s tradition, and has been for years for us to steal a bottle of champagne and scotch after putting in our appearances and sit on the roof of the hotel, playing with sparklers and cards and whatever we plan on doing.

‘Like you can steal a bottle of scotch on your own.’  Johanna smirks at me, and I’m glad things are the way they are.

Friends are hard. Friends are incredibly hard, because you never know if people are your friends because they genuinely like you, or because they wanted something.

There aren’t many of us in the same age group. Johanna and I are the same age, with Finnick being two years older than us.  The next closest is Peeta Mellark, but he’s still in high school. His older brothers, Rye and Bran are a few years older than Finnick.

Johanna has nothing I want, and I have nothing she wants. We’re cut from the same cloth, though at different places and different angles.

She’s the safest person to be close with, even though she can hurt me more than anyone else.

Finnick chased away all my other friends; he seduced the girls or insults the boys in such ways that he never got caught. His words dug into their skin and hollowed them out, until they turned away from me.

They said I was insane, and weird.

‘It’s been six years.’ I say over the rim of my second gin and tonic. ‘If Mamá is still mad that I refused to go to Reilly’s funeral, she has to be over it.’

Johanna laughs, and it’s a full body laugh. Her laugh always makes me smile, because I at least know it’s real.  ‘Auntie Carla can hold grudges longer than almost anyone.’

‘But she wouldn’t do this to me.’ I say, confident. Mamá doesn’t ignore me, in fact she’s too much involved in my life. ‘She knows I can’t stand him. She wouldn’t make him see him unless it was vitally important.’

Johanna shrugs. ‘Maybe it’s a merger. Or maybe it’s just an appearance.’

I pray it’s just an appearance. I don’t want it to be a merger.

Mergers mean different things to different people. To Johanna and I, it’s marriage. We’re not stupid, marrying for love is something that’s relatively knew, and rather unstable.

Political marriages last longer, and you know exactly what to expect from them.

‘He’s not Spanish.’ I say, and Johanna looks at me like she’s pitying me.

‘Neither was your Dad.’

We don’t talk about him. Because when I said you know if people want to be your friends, or want your money?

Yeah, you never know if someone loves you, or your title.

My father wanted a title.

My father got a title.

My father got a new wife and a new child.

My father got a tombstone and was buried next to them when their car crashed.

‘I should go.’

I don’t look back at Johanna as my heels click on the tile floor.

* * *

 

Le Bernardin is Mamá’s favourite restaurant in the city. We both ignore the fashion bloggers who snap photos as we get out of the car. Mamá finds them annoying.

Anyone can be a fashion blogger now a day, but that doesn’t mean they know what they are talking about.

‘[Date prisa cariño. No queremos hacerlos esperar.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/)’ Mamá says, her hand in mine, leading me to the restaurant like I am a child, not like I am twenty-one.

‘[No es tarde sin embargo](http://archiveofourown.org/works/).’ I say, as I shrug off my trench to the waiting coat check girl.

‘Mags Odair is always twenty minutes early.’ Mamá whispers in my ear, and she’s right.

Mags Odair has the presence of a great dame.  She has a wooden cane by her side, but no one would mistake her frailty for lack of power.

‘Carla.’ Mags says, and ‘Annie it has been awhile.’

Her voice is a bit garbled, and I remember that Mags had a stroke last September.

Mamá kisses Mag on the cheek, and I follow suit. I am not looking to the seat next to her, where Finnick is lounging.

‘Annie has been busy with school.’ Mamá says, and she takes a seat. I take my own seat, which is directly across from Finnick, and I’m not even able to look away.

Finnick’s eyes are watching me carefully.  ‘What are you studying?’

‘Ballet.’ I say.

‘You always were flexible.’  He comments offhandedly. I feel myself burn red.

I seethe.

How dare he? How dare he imply that we had sex in front of my mother and his grandmother?

Who the fuck does he think he is?

‘And you?’ Mamá asks, her tone clipped.

‘I’m studying business.’ He says easily.

Mamá’s eyes flash, and she’s like a shark circling for blood. ‘That is not what I hear.’

‘And what do you hear?’ Finnick says, his eyes flash a darker shade of green.

‘That you are sleeping your way through the upper east side.’ I speak up, now. My voice trying to imitate Mamá’s tone.

I’m as intimidating as a kitten.

‘Jealous Annie?’ His voice drops. I glare at him.

‘Of how disease ridden you are?’ I spit, trying to add venom.

Mags coughs, and I jump. Mamá is looking at me with some odd version of pride mixed with respect. I don’t think she expect me to find me trying to spit venom. I suppose no one has ever made me as mad as Finnick Odair.

Finnick has the audacity to look ashamed.

Like he is ever ashamed.

He got naked in Trafalgar Square last year.

And in Las Vegas in the fountains.

Ashamed is not a word in his vocabulary.

Dinner is quiet with nothing serious but Finnick and I don’t talk.

It’s near the end, when we’re drinking wine, when Mamá and Mags let us know why we’re having dinner.

‘How old are you Finnick?’ Mamá asks, Finnick pauses about to drink his wine, and I wonder if anyone else notices his eyes narrow.

‘Twenty-three.’

‘And have you read the inheritance?’ Mamá asks, and Finnick nods.

It feels like everyone knows what they are talking about but me.

‘Finnick is about to take over the family business.’ Mags says, finally letting me know what’s going on. ‘However, he can’t take over legally until he is married.’

I feel like the wine is going to come up. ‘No.’ I say, placing the wine on the table, and beginning to push the chair away from the table. ‘No. I refuse.’

‘Annie…’ Mags starts.

‘No.’

Mamá catches my hand as I try to leave. ‘[Ana por favor escucha. Para mí. Por favor](http://archiveofourown.org/works/).’

‘[No sé lo que estás pensando mamá. Pero me niego. Me niego a pensar siquiera en eso](http://archiveofourown.org/works/).’

‘Ana sit down.’ Mamá says firmly. ‘You need to listen.’

‘Why?’

Mamá doesn’t say anything, so I begin to walk out.

‘Abuelo wants you to be married or at least engaged or we will be cut off.’ Mamá says. I don’t miss the we.

‘What?’ I stop and stare. Mamá looks more serious than I have ever seen her. Mags has the air of her like she’s a cat cornering the canary. And Finnick? He looks uncomfortable with the entire situation.

‘After my marriage…fell apart, Abuelo was humiliated back in Spain.’ Mamá says haltingly, tightly. She speaks in English, and in low tones letting all of our table know the situation.

She’s lost her pride.

‘To ensure your inheritance, and your spot in the succession, Abuelo wants you married before you are twenty-five.’

‘No!’ I cry, but Mamá continues, like a dam that just burst open, all these words spilling out willy-nilly, like she had been hoarding them for years.

‘Ana, my beautiful, beautiful Ana,’ she says, taking my hand. ‘What else could I say but yes? You want to be a ballerina, mi amor, that is not a stable future. ‘

‘But…but…he’s not even Spanish.’ I stutter, trying to come up with an excuse.

Abuelo is a kind a man, to me, who is terrifying. You don’t care to disobey him. If you do, he cuts all ties, cold-heartedly. He only wants people around him, if you are useful. If you are not, you’re out of there. He is shrewd and ruthless in getting what he wants. The only reason why he has not disowned Uncle Oriol is because Abuela would kill him.

‘Good to know that the only reason why we shouldn’t get married is my nationality.’ Finnick says, drippingly. He makes his now garnered Irish accent extremely transparent.

I tear away from Mamá,  to glare at him. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. I can list a million and twenty seven reasons why marrying you is the worst idea in the world.’

‘But he is an Odair.’ Mags says, and it’s like both of them think being an Odair is the magic world. ‘And he stands to inherit a several billion dollar brewery, he also currently has a net worth of over fifty million dollars, and when I pass, a projected net worth of over one hundred million dollars.  Duke Ladislao Cresta  knows that your family’s net worth combined, will never top Finnick’s. And apparently money is much enticing then having a Spaniard for a grandson.’

Mamá and I both flinch at Mags words.

Abuelo thinks business first, happiness second.

And it’s not just me who would get disowned, but Mamá.

‘Are there conditions?’ I say, sinking into my chair, feeling like I’m drowing.

‘A few.’ Mamá squeezes my hand, and doesn’t let me go. It’s a sign of comradely, or an apology. I can’t decide which, but either one means nothing.

I just agreed to marry Finnick Odair. It doesn’t matter.

‘You need to be married before you are twenty-five, and provide an heir to the Cresta and Odair family lines before you are both thirty.’ Mamá says.

‘You will both remain in America for the duration of your studies, and you won’t marry until your graduation.’ Mags says to me, and I wonder if she thinks that’s kind of all of them.

I don’t have to get married until after I graduate. Well it’s not like I wanted an undergrad or a dance career. No I just wanted my MRS.

‘After you both graduate, you will relocate to Ireland, as that is where the head offices are.’ She continues. ‘You will split time between Ireland, Spain and America, where your children will be born to ensure neutrality.’

‘Gran do you have their schools picked out as well?’ Finnick says, and it’s the first sign of him not liking anything about this arrangement. ‘Or do Annie I give up every say in our lives? Because I agreed to the marriage. Fuck , I agreed to children. And I am going to make myself clear to everyone here, that those are your final conditions before I say no and leave.’

‘ _Finnick.’_  Mags looks scandalized. Mamá looks almost faint.

I think I might have smiled.

It sucks.

And people say we’re the lucky one, with the way they glamourize being rich. You get everything, and yes that is very true.

I have a lot of things, a lot of opportunities.

But it’s a gilded cage. I’m at the whim of my mother and my grandfather to survive.

And it’s the same for Johanna and Finnick.

Finnick sighs and stands, he towers over me, on the other side of six foot, and gets on his knee.

‘Annie Cresta, marry me.’ He says, winking.

‘An offer I can’t refuse.’

‘Face it Cresta, I’m the best damn offer you’ll ever get.’  His suit is nice, it’s Italian.

My congratulations to the makers, it looks even more smashing when wet.

‘Is that a yes?’ He asks.

I think Mags is laughing into her wine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I meant every word I said  
> I never was lying when we talked in bed  
> I'm retracing every step in my head
> 
> When did your heart go missing?-Rooney

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so easy to actually write. Also I know I’m doing something good when I’ve reduced Sara into loud rambling comments, and Thea wants more of asshole(?) Finnick. I swear to god that he wasn’t supposed to be an asshole, more of a Chuck Bass version of Finnick Odair…

Extra, extra.

It seems like there’s a new power couple out there. The golden boy of the West Coast and Santa Fe’s Ballerina.

Can’t say I’m too surprised.

I mean childhood sweethearts weren’t they?

What the hell happened to make the golden boy flee the US of At?

Who knows?

Who cares?

Oh right, you do.

Because this is the perfect complement to your coffee. It’s the artificial sweetener to your life. You want it so badly, something sweet, something light to block out the bitterness and blackness of your life, you’re willing to get cancer.

It’s really different of pathetic.

But hey, who am I to judge you for wanting to be me?

* * *

 

It’s all over page six.  It’s horrible. Pictures of Finnick and I at different time periods of our lives, including the ones from when we were teenagers and we alternated flying out to see each out.

‘Congratulations Mrs. Odair.’ Johanna’s voice rings out, and I drop the paper on to my lap. It’s the day before Fashion Week, and I am curled up in my hotel bed, not wanting to leave the room at all.

Mrs. Odair.

Somebody shoot me.

Preferably before the wedding.

‘Finn told me about the christening you gave him last night.’ She continues, kicking off her Jimmy Choos and getting into the bed, pushing me aside. ‘Apparently the tie is ruined.’

‘Good.’ I say tiredly. She picks up the paper, and gives the section a sweeping glance.

‘Well fuck.’ She doesn’t tell me sorry, and I don’t cry.

I’ve known all my life that my marriage will be a merger.  Just like Johanna knows her marriage will be a sham.

You can’t fight fate. Well, you can, but its fate for a reason. All that you will do is tire yourself out, and depress yourself with all the options you will never get to touch.

It’s so much better to just give up and let life happen. You can’t control it.

I don’t know what’s worse. Me, with no control at all, or Johanna, who has the illusion of control but is so much more trapped than I am.

I think its Johanna.

I can maybe learn to like Finnick. Johanna can’t change her sexuality, it’s not like shoes.

Her parents, any of our parents don’t or won’t see it that way.

‘I never thought it would be him.’ I whisper, pulling the comforter to my neck, and my knees to my chest.

Johanna’s quiet.

‘We had a deal.’ Johanna says, and she’s looking at the fire, lost in thought. ‘Finn and me. We’d get married, and adopt because neither of us want to have kids. And he could still try to win…try to sleep with whoever, and I could actually find someone.’

Fuck.

‘I didn’t know.’ I want to hug her, touch her something like that. But I don’t. She had found a loop hole, yes it sucked, and she still couldn’t really officially be out, but she could have been happy. ‘I’ll call it off.’

‘Are you on fucking bath salts?’ Johanna asks, looking mad at me. ‘Don’t you fucking dare.’

‘But you had a plan.’ I protest, why is she not happy about this? ‘You and Finnick would be all…happily shammed married.’

‘Forget it.’ She says hurriedly, crumpling the entirety of the paper into a ball and tosses it in a perfect arc and let it fall short of the fire place. ‘This works better.’

‘For who?’

I would love to argue against this point, for whom is this better for? Me?

Because this means I’m getting married to Finnick, and who is that good for? Not me.

It isn’t good. It’s not good at all.

‘For everyone.’

Well that is highly cryptic and oh so not true.

My phone thrills, and it’s the hotel manager letting me know a guest is arriving at the penthouse.

I have a sinking suspicious I know who it is, because Mamá is busy getting ready for Fashion Week, and Johanna is right beside me.

There is only one other person, and my suspicious are proved correct as Finnick, dress in hipster swag strolls in.

‘You started without me?’ He asks, in what I am pretty sure is a mocking tone, because he obviously has never seen me as a sexual being, because the first and last time Finnick and I had sex, he never called me and parade his threesome with two randoms in front of me the next night. He slips off his shoes and drops his leather jacket and messenger- bag- brief case- medicine bag thing, my mother is a designer, I should be able to describe this, on the couch.

‘Always babe.’ Johanna blows a sarcastic kiss, and I’m trying to get out of the covers, because of all the places to be stuck with Finnick Odair, in this hotel bed is basically the worst one possible.

I don’t manage to get out, before Finnick slides under the cover beside me. There’s space between us, and I’m hyper aware of it. There’s about five centimeters between my thigh and his hip, fuck his height.

He sighs, ruffles his hair and falls back on a pillow. I try to shuffle awkwardly out the way, but Johanna, who is on top of the covers, doesn’t move, pinning me in place. I don’t even want to think about what we look like right now.

Me, still in my pajamas, and looking like shit because I didn’t sleep at all for obvious reasons, and Finnick who is way too close to me under the covers, and making himself comfortable, like he belongs here and that he just woke up.

We probably look like a couple.

I cringe.

We are one.

Sort of.

Kind of.

I don’t even know what you call this.

A forced engagement, unwillingly entered but not without my permission?

Because make no mistake, I was the one who said yes.

I was the one who agreed to this, Mamá and Mags didn’t really build the cage but led me to it, and I was the one who walked in and threw away the key.

He’s never going to be faithful to me.

And I could never do what my father did to my mother.

It’s not uncommon for people to be unfaithful. In fact, it’s like finding a  unicorn finding someone in the less than one percent who is faithful and truly, madly in love with their significant other.

It’s a power and control thing, we are the heirs, or the ones running not the world, we’re not that presumptuous, but at least the economy.

Finnick could probably save most of Africa from Malaria if he did the whole one dollar can save a child in Africa thing.

I could maybe save a country, Johanna maybe could do Kenya?

I’m not sure. I should look into it.

Anyway, we’re used to being in control, in power. Basically everyone is used to being an alpha dog, or at least getting what they want.

Which means when you have two very similar like minded people in a marriage, usually out of convince or politics, they butt heads and then they stop butting uglies.

Johanna’s phone buzzes, and she looks at the message. ‘Fuck’ she says  her lips curling, ‘I’ve got to meet the New Girl.’

‘Oh.’ I say, feeling a bit numb.

‘Later.’ Finnick waves lazily, and makes no move to get out of my bed.

The hotel bed.

Not my bed.

Finnick will never get into my bed again.

I start to move, because I don’t want to be alone with him.  ‘I’ll go with you. ‘

I’m half way out of bed when two things happen.

I remember I only slept in a tank top and my panties, and Johanna shakes her head.

‘Nah.  We’re going to the Plaza. ‘Sides I need to see how good the New Girl is.’

‘Are you sure?’ It sounds desperate, like I’m forgetting all the rules Mamá taught me.

One, never put emphasis on the words you mean.

Two, never sound like you care.

Three, never care enough about someone to give them power over you.

And fourth, family is stronger and more important than anything else in the world.

‘Yeah.’ Johanna waves good bye, and we both watch her catwalk her way out of the penthouse suite.

‘Too bad she’s not straight.’ He says, and I turn to glare at him, but his gaze is less appreciative and more brotherly affection. ‘She has a great ass.’

I make a face, that’s hopefully disgusted.  But he continues before I can say anything.

‘You have a good ass too.’ He says, and he’s eying me appreciatively. I want to both preen and pull my tank top down. The problem with doing that is then my boobs will hang out.

I compromise. I stand straight, and cross my arms, trying to make myself as unattractive as possible. It’s fairly easy, I mean the raw materials can get cute if Johanna is doing my makeup, otherwise I’m fairly plain.

‘I think our family will have a no pants rule.’ Finnick continues, his voice becoming softer, more absentmindedly. ‘You have a good ass, pants suck. Easy solution. I don’t see anyone complaining.’

‘Why are you here?’ I say.

I’m expecting a flippant response, but instead he’s looking at me, seriously. ‘We need to talk.’

‘Then talk.’

‘Why don’t you come back to bed?’ He asks.  I give him a look. I don’t have time for this. ‘You might as well get used to it. We’re going to have to share a bed for the next eighty years of our lives.’

‘You’re planning on living past one hundred?’ I ask, coming to perch on the side of the bed. He doesn’t make any move towards me.

‘Well now that I’ve got you, why the fuck not?’ He stretches, yawning.

I cock my head. ‘Is that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?’

‘It’s a statement.’ Finnick says, ‘Look we’re stuck with each other for the rest our lives, try not to glare at me.’

‘Is this what you wanted to talk about? Me glaring less?’  This is a waste of both of our times. I could be sleeping or actually going to class.

I should be dancing right now, I have a small practise room booked exclusively for me to practise all day Saturday and Sunday. Normally they don’t let you do that, but normally people aren’t Lady Ana Cresta, Spanish nobility.

Rules don’t always work.

I sigh. ‘Whatever, I’ve gotta get to school. I’ve got to practise.’

I go over to the case I packed for the week. I have a condo on 63 West, which is a five minute walk to school, but Mamá insists we have to be closer to Fashion Week, and I have to stay with her.

I’m basically missing a week of classes to watch models walk in clothes and have my photo taken.

It’s the best week in the world.

That was sarcasm.

‘Shit.’ I didn’t pack my pointe shoes.  Whatever I’ll cab to my place and just walk to campus.

You would think me saying I have to go to school would be a cue of some sort for Finnick that he needs to leave, but instead he just seems to relax more.

‘We can talk tonight.’

I don’t pause as I yank my legs through my jeans. ‘What?’

‘There’s a Columbia business black tie affair for their best and brightest.’ He says with his eyes closed, looking more at home in that bed than I do anywhere. ‘And their significant others.’

I almost fall over at that, luckily I regain my balance. ‘But we’re not-‘

‘We are.’ He interrupts me, and his green eyes are open and intense as he stares me down, daring me to say another word. ‘Didn’t you read the paper? You’re the “Girl who tamed the Womanizer.’”

I snort. There is no one who could possibly tame Finnick Odair.

‘We’re going to have doing appearances like this for the rest of our lives,’ he continues, ‘We might as well start now.’

* * *

 

Johanna laughed for about an hour when I called her.  But there is nothing I can do about it.

Finnick is waiting for me in my hotel room again, his blondeish-red hair, which was much blonde when he was surfing, is unnatural straight, like he’s gelled his curls. He’s in an Armani suit, with a green tie that matches his eyes.

‘We’re going to be late.’ He calls, adjusting his cuffs.

I rush out of the bathroom, my dark hair failing to keep crisp curls, and instead of looking effortless elegant, I look windswept and dishelved.

The thin straps of my Chanel dress fall down my shoulder. I curse and Finnick’s fingers are gentle when he moves the strap in place.

His hand feels warm on my shoulder, and he towers over me. I inhale as he exhales, and I don’t stop myself from ruining how gelled his hair is.

I should.

But it just….gelled hair doesn’t suit Finnick. It’s not him.

How the hell do I know what the real Finnick is?

I don’t know him.

I wonder if I ever have.

‘Are you ready to face the world Annie Odair?’ He asks, and he’s so close to me, way too close to me. I can feel his breathe in my face, and I can smell his cologne.  Even in these stilettoes he’s taller than me, and if I so wanted to, I could kiss him.

It would be simple.

I don’t, but I take my hands from his hair, careful not to touch him. ‘Cresta. I’m Annie Cresta.’

Finnick laughs, ‘You’ve been Annie Odair since you were born.’

* * *

 

I fume for the elevator ride and for the limo ride. Finnick is completely unaffected by my sour mood, instead paying more attention to his phone. He’s texting someone, probably the girl he’s meeting up with tonight while I glare at him on the leather seats.

How dare he.

I don’t think he gets it, I am Annie Cresta, that name is everything to me.

What am I, if you take my name away?

This tiny girl who’s only have Spanish, with freaky green eyes. This girl who has no disconcerable skills besides being able to do thirty pirouettes in a row, and grand jétés in a row.

If I’m not Annie Cresta, then I’m a girl who is never enough for anyone to love or stay for longer than three months.

My own father didn’t stay to see me into the first grade.

If I’m not Annie Cresta I’m worthless.

I don’t want to be Annie Odair.

I don’t know who she is, but all I can think is when I picture her is Denise Smitherson-Odair.

And I don’t want to be that condescending, heartless, golddigging socialite bitch.

When the limo pulls up to The Glass House 21, it’s like a flip has switched, and Finnick is extremely attentive.

He is the first one out, and he helps me out. We’re photographed, and his hand never strays from the small of my back as we pose.

We pose for longer than is really nessicary, but it’s because it’s Finnick, and the cameras love him, we take many pictures.

‘Ana, Ana look this way!’ Someone shouts, and both Finnick and I turn, his hand on my waist drags me in closer, and I have to put my hands somewhere, so I rest one on his shoulder the other dangles useless by my side.

‘Annie.’ Finnick corrects, before I can. ‘She’s Annie Odair.’

There’s a collective gasp by everyone. I glare at him, and he smirks.

‘Cresta.’

‘Semantics.’ He says easily, like it’s a compromise, and he presses a kiss to my hairline. There are so many flashes, before his hand leaves my waist and our fingeres are intertwined and he’s leading me inside.

‘You need to get used to it.’ He says in low tones, as he snags us both champagne flutes.

I accept mine, and stare out at the people all dressed extremely well, and a few in Mamá’s latest line. ‘It’s been a day. Contrary to popular belief not all girls dream about marrying you.’

‘Nope.’ He pops the “p”, ‘But they all dream of sleeping with me, and that’s almost the same thing.’

‘You’re not that good.’ I say, taking a sip, and he leads me to meet his first professor. ‘I would say you don’t rank in the top five lovers I’ve had.’

I’ve only had sex with two other people, and Finnick is the best one.

But he can never know that.

There’s a strangle look that crosses his face, but it’s gone before I can figure out what it is better, and if I feel a bit guilty, I ignore it.

Over the course of the evening Finnick has introduced me to almost everyone as Annie Odair, and I have corrected him the entire time. We’ve successfully ignored or navigated past any questions regaurding our relationship because we don’t have any solid answers. Finnick has also kissed my forehead six more times, sometimes when no one is looking.

I have kissed his check once, by accident.

One waiter had mini hamburger things, and I really wanted one and because Finnick was so close to me,  my lips grazed his cheek.

It was not my fault.

I just wanted food.

* * *

 

At around midnight we left, and I fell into the cab exhausted. I hate Fashion Week, there is so much more socialization needed.

Oh fuck. Finnick’s a public figure.

That means there’s going to be more.

I don’t even notice what address Finnick gives the cab driver, sitting and not having to pretend to care about…whatever it was they were discussing is just brilliant.

Best part of the night. Hands down.

I do notice when we end up at Central Park, at past midnight in designer clothes.

‘We’re going to get mugged.’ I hold my clutch tighter. I’m a ballerina. I don’t fight. Finnick’s a grad student, he can fail our muggers.

‘We need to talk.’ Finnick shrugs, his hand in his pockets, and we start walking in a random direction. I keep on glancing at the shadows, worried that someone is going to jump out at us.

I don’t want to die.

‘About what?’ I say sarcastically.

‘Everything.’ I roll my eyes. We’ve reached a fountain, and Finnick hops onto the edge of it, and balances on it, walking in circles.

‘So talk.’ I say watching him.

‘We shouldn’t tell people the real reason.’ He says decisively, and it feels like he has an agenda, and he has put a lot more thought into this.

‘Why not?’

‘Do you want people to know that the reason we’re getting married is to ensure our inheritance?’ He casts me a disbelieving look, I want to disappear. ‘Make it a love story. The world loves a love story, so let’s give them one.’

‘I don’t like lieing.’ I tell him. ‘Lies destroy people.’ I don’t want to talk about my father, but it’s there.

‘So don’t lie.’ He suggests, like it’s obvious. ‘Tell them we’re childhood friends, and we spent six years missing each other, and now that we’re both in New York we’re having a whirlwind romance.’

‘I didn’t spend six years missing you.’ I say, because I didn’t. Missing someone, means you have an emotional connection to them, and I don’t have one.

‘No,’ Finnick agrees, causally. ‘You spent six years avoiding me, which means you spent six years thinking of me.’

That is…

Untrue.

‘No.’ I say shrilly.

He laughs, ‘Face it Cresta, I’m irresistible.’

‘You’re an asshole.’ I tell him, when I realize something. ‘You spent six years wondering why I wasn’t there!’

‘Oh I wasn’t wondering.’ Finnick says, doing another lap around the fountain. ‘Your Mom came to Ireland like six months after I came and told me if I ever talked to you again, she would make it very certain that I would never be allowed in anywhere in Europe for the rest of my life. And when you’re seventeen, and Carla Cresta is threatening you by invoking both the Pope and the King of Spain, you believe her.’

This is the first time I’ve heard about this. But I can believe it. ‘Why?’

‘Because I “[humillado y rompió el corazón de su hija](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1114986/chapters/)”’ Finnick says,  and I stare at the Spanish, that sound weird from this very white boy. ‘She also called me “[El hijo de la puta](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1114986/chapters/)” and once I googled it I had to agree. ‘

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah, but the past is the past.’ He’s standing on the stone, directly in front of me, and that statement sounds more like a question. I wonder if he wants me to forgive him.

But it’s not like he has anything to be sorry for. He never said I love you, and he never told me I would be the only one.

He has nothing for me to forgive.

I mean…

‘Yeah.’ I agree, and it feels like something heavy has been lifted from my shoulders, and by the way Finnick’s shoulder’s move, he must feel the same way. ‘We’re not kids anymore.’

‘Then say it.’ Finnick’s eyes are incredibly bright for it being rather dark. ‘Say we’re getting married, because you’ve never said it. Not once. ‘

‘We are going to get married.’ The words feel foreign in my mouth. ‘I am going to marry Finnick Odair.’

His face splits into a giant grin. ‘Louder.’

‘What?!’

‘Everyone in the world wants to know who Finnick Odair will marry, and it’s you.’ He’s so smug in this, that I can’t help it.

I step forward and push him firmly backwards, he flails, trying to grab my hand to keep his balance, but I move out of the way faster, and he falls back into the fountain.

I can’t help but laugh. He’s looking like a puppy whose been betrayed by his owners as he has to go the vet.

‘I think you’re confused about our relationship,’ He pouts, not moving from the fountain. ‘I’m the one whose supposed to get you wet.’

Oh my god.

I laugh harder. Only Finnick would say something that outrageous and manage to both piss me off, because that is uncalled for, crude and why the hell would he say that.

But it is funny.

I feel bad for laughing, but it is funny.

I hold out my hand to help him out, he pulls me into the fountain instead.

Figures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also Holy mother of, there are a lot of people wanting some really weird complete crack.
> 
> I swear to god I can write in character stuff. Just not this...
> 
> And wow Thea gave me a new ending!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update! Wow. I’m on a roll avoiding this paper!
> 
> Thea is basically why I’m updating, she reminds me about this one.
> 
> Also! Katniss appears!

Its fashion week bitches, and we all know what that means.

You’re skipping meals and puking up champagne in the bathrooms of  Byrant Park, and smoking off the calories in the stalls.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year.

Oh sorry, you don’t have a ticket?

Guess you’re stuck with the Wal-Mart knockoffs, it’s okay though we’ll only judge you a lot.

But looks like the Ballerina and the Maneater have split ways. I know it’s a weird friendship, but hey the bitch and the mute gotta stick together somehow right?

* * *

 

I wake up to Finnick Odair’s face in my face. Okay, well actually there’s a few inches, but at the same time I wake up to Finnick actually IN my bed, not the hotel bed, and under the cover and shirtless. 

And his hand is wrapped around my waist.

It needs to be moved.

It feels good.

But…I can’t have him in my bed.

Not yet.

Not ever.

Wait there is no ever, because we’re engaged and welcome to the rest of my life.

If he’s not in bed with some other girl.

Remember Annie, Finnick is not your father. He already has more money than you do, so you know he’s not after your money.

I look at Finnick again, and he doesn’t look unspeakably breathtakingly good looking. Don’t ever let him know that, he’s never going to let me forget it.

But he’s snoring and his hair is sticking out everywhere and he has bags under his eyes.

I smile.

If things worked out better from the night we slept together years ago, maybe there was a chance that this would work out. I mean, Finnick was always good looking, but I don’t remember him sleeping around until after that night.

It’s a weird feeling; both loathing him because of what he did, remembering the fun times when we were kids, and he taught me how to surf, and I showed him how to pirouette, and know we’re stuck together forever and ever amen.

I don’t know what to do with it.

‘Go back to sleep.’ Finnick mutters, and I jump and catch his morning breathe. I didn’t know he was awake.

‘Why are you here?’ I ask, even though I know.

We went to Central Park, and I pushed him into a fountain, and I refused to go to his apartment, because I am his fiancée not some random ass girl he’s taken home. I won’t step foot there.

It’s stupid of me, but it’s where all the other girls he’s brought home since coming to New York have been.  I’m not one of them.

Well I am. But I’m different.

I _have_ to be.

It was so late, and it was easier to go to my place than for me to go to the hotel. Mamá is already in a right mood, having to show tomorrow, I don’t need her waking up and screaming more.

‘It’s only eight.’ Finnick answers, and I try to roll out, but his arm casually on my waist locks and rolls me in.

‘Eight?!’ I push him out of the way, and he rolls it off. ‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.’ I mutter, stripping off my yoga pants and I’m about to pull off my shirt, but Finnick sits up and I remember that  he’s here and I can’t strip in front of him.

‘Don’t stop on my account.’ Finnick rumbles, and his voice is scratchy like sand paper and it sounds good.

I give him a look, and hop a bit to the bathroom. ‘I’m late!’

Mamá’s show is at ten. With traffic, and being presentable, I’m going to be so late.

My shower is quick, and I rush through my morning routine, making sure everything is shaved, plucked and clean. I’m wearing an over large tshirt, and a black lace thong, shaking a bottle of nail polish frantically as I rush to my kitchen to start the coffee.

Finnick is shirtless and yawning making coffee and what looks like pancakes.

I don’t pause in my shaking.

‘Are you coming?’ I ask, and he raises an eyebrow at me, and I have to rush to finish before he makes this some sort of innuendo. ‘To the show?’

He pouts, and I roll my eyes before sitting myself down at the counter and starting to paint my nails in a very pale pink.

This colour matches Mamá’s collection perfectly.

‘Yeah.’ He says shortly, fixing a cup of coffee before it’s finished brewing and perverting with most of my sugar bowl. Disgusting. ‘Grandma says this is our second official outing. We have to go to the closing gala as well.’

 

I nod.  I missed the opening gala for the Columbia business thing, and I haven’t done that ever.

‘You can’t wear whatever you were wearing last night.’ I tell him, and he gives me the look like it’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever said. 

I glare back.

‘I’ll meet you there then. The show starts at ten, so text me at like nine thirty.’ I say briskly.

‘What?’ Finnick says wounded, ‘I make you breakfast and I don’t get to eat it.’

‘I’m gluten intolerant.’

* * *

 

I manage to get into Byrant Park, wearing a dress from Mamá that she made just for me. It’s a drop wait with a high neckline, it fits my body perfectly and I look regal and beautiful.  I have to pose for photographs, and people yell “Annie Cresta”  and “Annie Odair”. It’s overwhelming.

If there is any place not have an identity crisis, it’s when you’re getting paparazzi-ed.  But it happens. I don’t know where to turn and there are so many flashes.

In the end I brush aside any question and get in, waving my badge to get me back stage where Mamá is pacing around like something horrid has happened.

‘[Ana! Ahí estás! ¿Dónde estabas? Vi esas fotos tuyas y Finnick. Te ves tan bonita. Nunca ha visto al chico un peine?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1114986/chapters/)’ Mamá rattles off and I know these questions are not ones that she wants an answer to. ‘T[e ves tan linda querida. Spin, giro para mí.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1114986/chapters/)’

I feel foolish, but I spin around, feeling the soft fabric which ends around my knee flare up.

‘You could almost be a ballerina.’ Jo draws lazily, and she’s sauntering through half-dressed models, her eyes trained on me, with a shadow.

The new girl, is dressed in what I can only assume is what comes from Wal-Mart. Her jeans don’t fit, and she’s skinny, not slender, but in the unhealthy way which makes me think she’s skipped a lot of meals. Her hair is brown, dull, and in a thick braid down the center of her back.

Well then.

‘[¿Es esta la chica?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1114986/chapters/)’ Mamá asks, ignoring Jo and refusing to speak English. ‘[La única puta?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1114986/chapters/)’

‘Mamá!’ I admonish.

‘[Ella no es de aquí.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1114986/chapters/)’ Mamá huffs, before holding her arms out for Jo. ‘Johana, you have an interesting choice in guests.’

‘Well you know me,’ Jo says droll, ‘Always giving them something to talk about.’

Jo and the girl, oh I should remember her name, whatever they filtered away, doing whatever Jo has to do.

I can understand her frustration and annoyance. She has to baby sit this girl who no one it is really thrilled about, when she could have been making sarcastic comments over champagne and being overtly sexual, and taking a few models home over the course of the week.

It’s not that she’s in the closet. Although she is sort of, I know, Finnick knows, Peeta and his brothers know. But most of society doesn’t. When she’s just Jo, not Johana Mason she doesn’t hide it, she takes girls home and she has fun with them.

But social things like this must suck. I mean, they do. I think the only person who likes it is Finnick. Jo just makes a spectacle of herself, and I wonder if she regrets making this her plan of action because it’s now expected of her, and it must be tiresome.

‘[Si ella era unos cuantos kilos más ligero, me encantaría para que camine por mí](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1114986/chapters/).’ Mamá says absently. It’s an age old thing with Mamá, Jo is by no means fat or big or whatever the politically correct term is, but she’s not model thin either.

I’m not tall enough to model. I’ve accepted it.

‘[¿Dónde está Finnick?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1114986/chapters/)’ she asks, ‘Sarah get back here!’

The girl in question is wearing a dark blue overcoat with a pencil skirt, comes over to see Mamá.

‘He’s coming. He has to get dressed.’ I say, as Mamá makes the tall model bend so she can inspect the crisp ballerina bun in detail.

‘No, no, no’ Mamá clucks her tongue. ‘This is all wrong. Come.’

Sarah and I fall in line behind Mamá who marches in stilettos like a general going to war. Sarah is giving me a side look, and I don’t know if it’s because I am the designer’s daughter, and the reason why ever since I decided to be a ballerina, all the hair has been in a ballerina bun.  Or if it’s because of Finnick.

For once I hope it’s because I’m the designer’s daughter.

‘[Vi a los tweets.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1114986/chapters/)’ Mamá says, ‘P[asó la noche en tu casa.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1114986/chapters/)’

Is it possible to not feel incredibly guilty? I am an adult and what is more, he is my fiancé who she got me engaged to!

‘[Era tarde.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1114986/chapters/)’ I say, she doesn’t look at me; instead she snaps for Sarah to sit and gets in this huge argument over the hair.

I’m  ignored.

I’m used to it, I’ve been back stage for Fashion Week for years, and I know how this works.

I check my phone and there’s no message from Finnick, but it’s past nine thirty.

Where the hell is?

‘He should be here soon.’ Mamá says, not looking up from watching the hair stylist remake Sarah’s hair.  ‘No. Not like _that_ , like…why is your hair down today of all days?’  She asks.

I shrug.

There’s a bit of the sound of a commotion, and when I turn, I can see Finnick, dressed in jeans, and a white t shirt and one of Mamá’s leather jackets from her men’s line, making his way.

‘Annie.’  He says, smirking, ‘Carla.’

Mamá nods, and Finnick’s arm is around my waist.

‘Kiss me for the cameras.’  Finnick whispers in my ear, his breath is hot and tickles me.

I lean into him and kiss him, my hands resting on his shoulders. It’s supposed to be just a peck, but it’s not.

His arms on my waist tightens, and I’m pulled flush against him, my eyes are closed and I sigh a bit. We fit really nicely, and it’s confusing and makes me feel warm in my stomach.

I like it.’

It makes me think of summer at Sante Fe, and running around art galleries making fun of Finnick because he couldn’t understand artistic representation in abstract art, and the finesse of metaphors. I was raised by Carla Cresta, and art and culture were my disposable media.

Finnick was raised by Rielly Odair, he can appreciate the surf, the boats, the athletics. He has perfected the craft of charming everyone in the room, like he’s their favourite barkeep.

We come from opposite ends of the entertainment world, and it should have been a giant mess. But at fifteen and seventeen, it was just fun.

But we aren’t fifteen and seventeen.

We’re twenty-one and twenty-three, and there’s a threesome, and an engagement between us. I don’t think I can be as carefree as I was with him then. I don’t trust him.

Mamá breaks it up with a disapproving look, and a reprimandum, and I flush red.

Finnick chuckles in my ear, and his hand is around my waist, like it belongs there.

‘We’ll take out seats.’ He tells Mamá, ‘This will be exciting.’

‘You’re going to be bored out of your mind.’ I tell him, as he leads me out from backstage, twinning our hands together.

He laughs, and camera flashes go off. He ignores them, for what feels like the first time in his life. ‘Yeah. But hey, I just downloaded Draw Something.’

‘Mamá will murder you if you pull out your phone.’ I tell him.

The runway is white, and the entire room is white actually. White is the colour Mamá’s using as her base, with shades of pink as her colours for this season.

On print out of paper there is a name designated for each distinguished guest. On the right side, front row center is my name ‘Ana Cresta’ beside me isn’t ‘Johanna Mason’ for the first time in almost a decade, instead it’s ‘Finnick Odair.’

I guess that’s what my life will be like now. Beside me it will be Finnick, and Jo won’t be the one who I go on vacations with, who I call firstly when there’s a family emergency. It feels like my social circle, small as it is already, just shrunk to Finnick.

It’s terrifying.

He shudders. ‘God save me from Carla Cresta.’

‘She’s going to be your mother-in-law’ I tell him in quieter tones, as we make ourselves comfortable. People, reporters, some socialites and celebrities that Mamá adores, and the few fashion bloggers Mamá tolerates are already seated.

Cameras are trained on us, and Jo and what’s her name are seated opposite of us.

‘God help me.'

Finnick mutters and I hit him on the stomach. ‘Ommf’ He feigns, taking the opportunity to move me closer, and keep my hand on his leg.

‘Oh shut up.’ I roll my eyes. ‘I get Mags Odair as my grandmother-in-law.’

‘Hey! Grandma’s awesome!’

‘She’s scary.’ I say, ‘You think Mamá’s threatening?’

The show begins, and he can’t answer me, as my full attention is on the show.

It’s an hour and a half long, and I’m enthralled.  I’ve seen all these designs before, I’ve worn prototypes and told Mamá what are my favourite shades are.

But this is Mamá’s ballet, it’s her passion. It’s what drove her to America, and what dragged across the globe, tracking down fabrics, and finding inspiration.

Half way through the show, I turn my head to watch a model walk back, and I am face to face with Finnick. 

He’s looking at me weirdly, like I’m water and he’s from the dessert. I’m struck by his eyes, how green and clear they are, and they are looking at me like he sees me, every bit.

And I can feel his breathe on me, and before I can stop or protest or think, I close the millimetres between us, and kiss him.

My hand is still on Finnick’s thigh, and his other hand which was resting on the back of my chair comes to rest on the small of my back. I jump like I’ve received a giant shock, the pressure of his skin on my bare back.

I break the kiss and Finnick’s got a slight smirk on his face.

 His hand never leaves my back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not going to lie, this is updated over the fact I felt the need to reward Liana for writing poetry, Sara for having a shitty adult job and Thea for not being dead.
> 
> And yay plot! Also I had fun with bringing Gale into this.
> 
> And Finnick’s mother, and Annie and yeah…
> 
> It should be noted, that these opinions expressed by any of them aren't my own.

Ooh la la looks like paradise is a place on earth. The Ballerina and the Golden Boy were caught sucking face at Fashion Week.

But the real question is who’s the girl in Wal-Mart couture following the Maneater around?

My sources tell me she’s the prodigal child, an Upper East Sider by birth, but you know birth doesn’t mean you belong.

And I think I saw the Maneater’s claws, so New Girl you might be born for this, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to belong.

There are so many people in the ballroom, and waiters circulate every few seconds with trays with champagne flutes.

Bartenders are on call for harder drinks, like the gin and ryes Jo’s been knocking back; and everyone is wearing couture.

* * *

 

Finnick is somewhere, I should know where he is, because I came with him and we did the photo thing, where his arm never leaves from my waist and I anchor myself to him, smiling shyly into the crook of his neck, while Finnick smirks. He’s probably mingling, talking to people, getting some head from some socialite in the bathroom.

Paranoid? Me? Really?

No.

Jo and I can’t leave yet, and so we’re drinking, Jo’s gin and ryes and my white wine count is racking up, while Katniss, the grumpy girl dressed in vintage nurses a soda water.

‘You should smile more.’ I tell Katniss, sipping the wine. It’s smooth; I really do like whatever they brought in for the house wine tonight. I need to remember to ask the name. ‘The whole point of you being here is for you to be social.’

She tries, and it becomes sort of a grimace and I suppose it’s better than nothing.

Jo snorts, ‘Brainless is depressed. She misses Wyoming.’

Wyoming. Is that where she’s from?

‘Why?’ I ask, it’s a stupid question. I miss Santa Fe horribly, because that’s where Mamá is most of the year. But as far as I know from Jo, her mom and sister are in Manhattan, hiding from society until things go smoothly.

I don’t think either of us were expecting the furious red blush to burn over her face.

‘Well that’s new.’ Jo says, nodding to the bartender to get another gin and rye. ‘Brainless only glares.’

This just makes her blush furiously.

‘What’s the name?’ Jo asks, accepting the gin and rye, and looking like she’s a hawk about to devour a mouse.

Katniss mutters something that starts with a ‘G’ and Jo and I exchange looks.

‘Sorry, could you repeat that?’ I ask softly, dangling my wine glass on the tip of my fingers.

‘Gail.’ She says, and Jo’s eyes grow a bit big.

Huh.

I did not expect that. I’m watching Jo carefully whose gaze has turn into something not less predatory, but just different.  The statistics are something like one in every five people are gay, which means that there are more people in society besides just Jo, they’re just really closeted, so she’s never met any-or if she has she’s never told me.

I don’t know if she knows what to do.

I don’t even get to discuss this in more depth, before Finnick slides over to us, his arm slipping over my waist, like its natural, and I surprise both of us when I don’t flinch but relax into him.  

It’s been a whirlwind of a week, where most of my time has been spent dragging Finnick from show to show, and beating his Flappy Bird score. 

Sometimes he goes to class, and I hang out with Jo and Katniss.

I have to be present all Fashion Week.

‘Jo. Kitten.’ Finnick nods, stealing my wine, ‘How we all doing?’

‘Katniss was just telling us about Gail from back home.’ I say, watching him finish my wine. His fingers tighten on my hip, as if he gets the importance of this to Jo and he’s watching them much more carefully.

‘Oh-ho’ Finnick laughs, and I look at him.

What the hell was that laugh? There’s a strange look in his eyes, different from anything I’ve ever seen, and I try to follow his gaze.

Fuck.

Tall, ice-blonde and dressed in Prada with a martini glass that’s never left her hands from as long as I have ever known her, trying to hold court in the ballroom is Denise Smitherson nee Odair, now…I don’t even know.

She’s had way too many husbands since Rielly. Luckily, her only child she’s neglected since he was five.

My hand’s on his tie, straightening it before I even think, and if I leave my palm flat on his chest, than it really doesn’t mean anything.

It’s like watching in slow motion, as the bitch laughs and it’s loud, designed to catch people’s attention; and she does that.

Mags who is sitting at a table, probably brokering a business deal ignores her. Most of the people take their cue for how to deal with Denise from Mags.

She’s nouveau riche, a b-list actress back in the eighties, now reality TV star. Disgusting.

She’s my mother-in-law.

Yay.

Jo doesn’t even notice the change, because she’s busy picking a fight-flirting as subtly as she can with Katniss, moving into her personal space, making herself unavoidable.

Wordlessly, Finnick takes my hand, and it feels like a spotlight is on us as we cross the floor. I can feel Mamá’s eyes burning into my back, I don’t know if it’s a warning to not engage the bitch in conversation, or if it’s protection-everyone knows that Mamá can tear someone to shreds, and will destroy them if they hurt me.

She ran Finnick out of the US.

‘Hi Mom.’ Finnick says, stopping us just out of arm’s reach. His hand is on my waist, and he’s dragged me almost behind him, like that can stop the bitch from saying words that are meant to cut to the bone.

‘Finnick.’ Denise smiles and it’s so false, you could get it from China. ‘And Ana Cresta. Well…can’t say I’m surprised.’

I squeeze his arm, I’m not sure if it’s supposed to reassure him or comfort him.

‘It’s been awhile.’ Finnick says, ignoring Denise’s words. ‘I’m surprised you were even allowed in.  Aren’t you busy trying to keep up with the Kardashians?’

If there was ever a point where I felt the need to do that knuckle snapping thing, this would be it.

‘You know Darling,’ Denise says, and it’s like the white queen offering Turkish delights, evil dressed up in pretty clothes, dangling something sweet and probably poisonous in front of Finnick. He doesn’t flinch when the bitch calls him “darling” but his grip on me is really tight. ‘Don’t get so high and mighty. You’re my son too.’

It’s laced the words, with poison. He’s nouveau riche as well; the Odair name, which dates back several hundred years and still is prestige and synonymous with good beer. But if you look at his parents, just his parents and no one else, Finnick is the son of a washed-up actress and a bartender.

I want to scream and rip off her stupid extensions and beat her Botox filled face.

The stupid bitch.

How dare she insinuate that Finnick is less because of her? Finnick is worth a world of Kardashians and actresses and stupid divorcees blowing men the same age as her son under the table to get a new bag.

Oh, you didn’t know I knew that did you Denise?

Well, you know that really nice restaurant on Fifth Avenue? The one that’s super trendy with the young ones?

I like that place.

And I’ve seen you a few times, never with the same guy, but always the same routine. You disappear for like five minutes and that guy has an ‘O’ face.

You can get all the Botox and plastic surgery you want, make it look like you’re twenty-five not fifty-six, but nothing can hide a loose vagina you stupid whore.

I don’t say any of that. Instead I bite my tongue so hard I taste iron.

‘Well,’ Finnick shrugs, rolling off the insult like its water, ‘it’s not like I had a say in my genetics.  Thanks for the cheekbones.’

Finnick begins to pull away, evidently done with this conversation and I wish we could wash the world clean from Denise Smitherson hyphen whoever the fuck she married now.

If Denise says anything to make him stop and turn around, I don’t let him do that.

It’s me leading him now, away from the crowds, from the alcohol and the prying eyes.

I don’t know where I’m walking, but I’m taking Finnick with me as far away from that woman as I can and still be in this building.

We end up in a stairwell used for the staff.

‘I’m sorry.’ Finnick says automatically, dropping my hands and cupping his face as he takes a few steps back. ‘You shouldn’t have to deal with her.’

I have never thought of Finnick Odair as a rejected puppy before, but my heart just drops and I feel either mad or hurt that he thinks he needs to protect me from her or sad that his mother is such a bad person.

‘Don’t.’ I say, as Finnick sort of collapses against the off white brick wall. ‘Don’t apologize for her.’

He doesn’t seem to hear me, because he’s apologizing repeatedly, his voice bouncing around the empty stairwell.

I don’t know if he hears me, or what he is even apologizing for.

I don’t know what to do.

There are these stupid websites, where they glamourize this life, shows where they make it seem like family problems are cool, and crack addictions and a stint in rehab are a rite of passage.  I don’t know how to make it more obvious how wrong they are.

This isn’t fun; these parties aren’t more than something to be paraded around and judged for.

We’re a joke to the world. And this, listening to Finnick apologize to invisible people for things that he never did, but were blamed for, this is the punch line.

He’s on the ground, and I know no one has seen him like this before, and I don’t know what to do.  I just want to make him stop blaming himself.

I kneel in front of him, and gently try to pry his hands off his face; if he pushes me away I don’t know  how to help him.

He lets me, and I wait until his eyes which are a bit bloodshot meet mine.

‘You and me.’ I say, in between his knees trying to make things better. ‘We’re a team right? It’s you and me against the world.’

I don’t know if this is making things better, I don’t even know how to fix Finnick, if you can fix whatever damage his mother did to him.

There are probably millions of people who can rescue Finnick, people who can take him out of the toxicity of our world, and I’m the last person who should be trying to hold him together when I’m drowning in the same ocean.

But it’s me and him, and I will try my hardest to keep both our heads above water.

‘Remember that.’ I’m desperate to make him stop apologizing. ‘Finnick it’s going to be and you forever and ever amen.’

He stops apologizing, and he’s just looking at me.

‘You and me.’ I repeat. ‘It’s just you and me.’

‘…You and me…’ He whispers brokenly, and I nod furiously.

‘Yeah, us. Team Annie and Finnick.’ I’m just talking, trying to get through to him. ‘I’m here.’

He hugs me, crushing me against his chest. I can hear his heartbeat pounding furiously, and his arms are like an iron clamp, there’s no way I can get out of this.  But I don’t want to.

This moment, with him is the only place I want to be.

I can’t tell you how long I stayed there, holding him while he held me like I was a life raft. I just know that eventually his heartbeat calmed down and he shifts our position so my back is flush against his chest, and our fingers are intertwined.

‘Me and you.’ He says hoarsely in my ear, his breath tickling my ear as I concentrate on his heartbeat. ‘I like that.’

‘Me too.’ I admit.

* * *

 

By the time we return to the party, Jo is petting Katniss ‘s arm, stroking it almost unconsciously while they listen to one the Mellrak boys stories.

Finnick motions to Mags, and I nod; before he lets go of my hand he kisses my forehead, and I can tell that Jo has seen that and by her pointed expression, we’re due for some roof time.

We’re not even subtle as we race each other to the roof, with a bottle of scotch tucked under Jo’s arm.

‘So,’ Jo exhales laying flat on her back, staring at the sky. ‘What the fuck is with you two?’

I shrug. ‘I dunno.’

She waits for me to give a better answer, and the words kind of bubble over in a way that doesn’t make coherent sense.

‘It’s…nice…and frustrating and…like nostalgic?’ I say, ‘Like if he didn’t fuck two girls the night after we slept together, it would have been like this…but that’s totally wishful thinking. And I just… I don’t hate him…but I…guess I’m trying to make the best of the situation.’

‘You never hated him.’ Jo says casually, taking a swig and handing me the bottle. ‘It’s you. You could never hate Finn.’

‘I’m pretty sure I spent six years hating him.’ I accept the bottle and take a long sip. There’s something so cool about drinking straight from the bottle, like it’s a big secret.

‘Nah.’ Jo shakes her head, and it looks like she’s counting stars to make sure they’re all hung up properly. ‘You were just heartbroken-for a good reason that was a total douche move and he knows it. But like, you had this great vision of what your life was going to be like, and you and Finn were going to be high school sweethearts and do prom and homecoming and all that shit, and Finn doesn’t-didn’t …well emotions aren’t his strong suit. So he bailed.’

‘What?’

‘Finn’s a douche.’ Jo says summing up all my problems so simply. ‘But he’s a good guy under the douche. He’s trying to make it better.’

It doesn’t make sense, I’m blaming the gin and tonics and the scotch and champagne and whatever else she was drinking.

‘You and him,’ she continues, ‘You’re probably the closest to the real deal and he’s trying to make it work. And you should just ease up on him.’

I didn’t realize I was being hard on him.

‘You’re different you know. You always have been.’

I’m silent in that revelation and I don’t know what to do with it.

Different, different isn’t a good word, it’s not a compliant it’s a standard. I’m not the norm, I’m abnormal. And I don’t want to be different but at the same time I do. I don’t want to be just another girl to him, and I know I’m not because well…future wife, but that doesn’t mean much.

It just means that legally, on paper I’m important to him.

And yeah, since…last Thursday, I haven’t seen him with any other girl. But that doesn’t mean much. He has six years of never being seen with the same girl more than twice, and it’s always sex.

I don’t think he’s capable of love.

I don’t think I’m capable of falling in love.

It doesn’t work that way, you just tolerate someone. You want to be content with what you’ve got, instead of wishing for something you can’t.  You have kids, and try to not fuck up your kids like you’re parents fucked you up.

It’s a vicious cycle.

Politics over happiness, family security over love.

Money over everything.

People don’t change in ten days, Finn’s going to slip into his habits and I’m not going to say a damn thing.

I’m going to be my mother, a husband who never loved her, who sleeps around.

But unlike Mamá I won’t be able to tell him to stop.

Because what if the woman he’s fooling around, he really loves?  He can’t marry her, if she’s not one of us, I mean look at what happened to Katniss’s mom, not to mention Mags would never let that happen after her son married the bitch.

He deserves to be happy.

Jo deserves to be happy.

And yeah, maybe I do too, and married to Finnick when he’ll cheat isn’t what’s going to make me happy, but I don’t know what makes me happy.

I don’t want to think about this anymore.

I need to change the topic.

‘What’s with you and Katniss?’ I say, handing the bottle over to Jo.

‘She has a girlfriend.’ She says quietly, as if she wants to keep it to herself, ‘Gail.’

‘And?’

It’s not like Jo hasn’t taken a girl whose in a relationship home before.

‘Nothing.’ Jo says, ‘It’s just…yeah.’

I rarely see Jo at a loss for words. The only time I can remember that happening, is when I told her that Finnick had a threesome effectively dumping me, not that we were together.

‘It’s weird.’ She stretches, after a long moment where Jo gathered her thoughts. ‘She’s private, but it’s not like she’s hiding that she’s out. It’s kind of…refreshing.’

‘Liberating?’  I ask.

Jo mulls the word around in her mind while I drinking more scotch and trying to find a shooting star. It’s hard when there are so many lights and the sky is barely dark despite it being around two in the morning.

‘Yeah. Like…yeah.’ Jo tells me. ‘If she can do it, why can’t I?’

I wish I had an answer for her; but I don’t.

‘Will you?’

Jo doesn’t answer me, and changes the subject and I let it go. I can’t imagine what she’s thinking, or how badly this will blow up.

We’re used to things changing, trends, marriages, hair, and real estate; but at the same time things are bound by the classic structure.

There are always going to be new, cutting edge designers but I’m always going to fall back on Chanel, Prada and Louis Vuitton as my staples.

And besides, who ever said that high society was accepting?

It’s an hour later, when Finnick comes up to the roof with my coat and we return back to the party; Jo’s got Katniss tailing her, looking pissed that she had to spend the hour or so we went missing talking to Peeta, the one person who is her age that Jo catches me before I get into the car Finnick has waved up.

‘Yeah.’ She says, before turning on her heel and getting into her own car.

Things are changing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my tumblr, where there are more fics that I don't post here!
> 
> seevikifangirl.tumblr.com!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just thought Finnick would totally utilize social media, and just spam people with pictures.
> 
> Also we aren't even half way done this thing and we're almost at 20 k words. 
> 
> For crack this is a bit out of hand.
> 
> Also Finnick and Annie's outfits can be found on my tumblr "seevikifangirl", under the tag "all we care about is talking"

Valentine’s Day was fun wasn’t it?

The new power couple seemed to have spent the night in, and if anyone knows the Golden Boy of The West Coast, our littler Ballerina barely left the bed.

And they say Romance is dead.

Everyone saw the Maneater roll about town. Maybe you were one of the lucky ones to get a free show?

* * *

 

The thing about March is that all the papers and things I am putting off, are all about to come piling over and drowning me.

And I am pretending they don’t exist by playing _Mario Kart_ with Finnick.

It’s weird I know.

Fashion Week changed it, but it didn’t change things in a sexual way, more of we’re on the same team and we both have one fucked up parent sort of way.

So we basically hang out maybe once a week, and play video games or watch _The Walking Dead._  

It’s not this huge, epic romance. It’s not even a romance.

It’s a rebuilding of a friendship. I mean the wedding is like years off, we have to grow to tolerate each other, and now there aren’t any cameras shoving down our throats we don’t have to be affectionate.

‘Put the fucking shell down.’ Finnick threatens me; he’s on the leather sofa behind me, while I’m the floor leaning into the controller.

I’m shit at games, completely the worst. I like to believe that the closer you get to the console and if you move your body you can move your character.

‘Why, afraid you’re going to lose?’ It would be so more confident on the stupid Rainbow Track, if I remembered which button to press to let go of the shell. I button mash, and I end up flying off the track. Finnick completes the lap and wins the round.

And basically the entire night.

‘Well Cresta that’s what…six times in a row you lost to me?’

I give him the finger.

He acts wounded, as I go to the kitchen and make hot chocolate.

It’s almost one in the morning on a Friday night and I am playing video games with the guy who’s notorious for sleeping through New York, something we’re both reminded of when his phone buzzes and lights up.

‘Who is she?’ I ask, handing him a mug.

‘Glimmer.’ He says, glancing at the message. It’s simple to the point, with XXX after each explicit detail.

‘Is she a stripper?’ I snort.

‘That’s rude.’ He says mildly, deleting the message.

‘So she chose to be called Glimmer? Or were her parents high?’

He doesn’t dignify me with an answer, but he motions for me to sit on the couch.

When I’m leaning on the arm, Finnick invades my personal space, sticks his phone in front of me and snaps a picture.

‘What?’ I ask, as he stares at it critically. He’s smirking, wearing thick black square frames glasses that match mine. We both have shitty eye sight, he’s wearing a pull over and I’m in a t-shirt with my hair in a messy knot. I look so tired, while he looks stunning, like one of those hipster pin up boys.

At least my glasses frames cover up my eye bags.

In the picture, I look unimpressed.

‘We don’t need a filter.’  Finnick isn’t listening to me, as he instagrams and tweets the picture out with the caption ‘ _Wild Night with the love of my life. #oldandboring #someoneneedstoplaymoremariokart’_

‘Love of your life?’ I echo, watching the likes and retweets happen. I know we’re selling the fairy tale lie over the reality, but that’s stretching it a bit.

‘Grandma gave me shit about Valentine’s Day.’ He says as an explanation.

We spent Valentine’s Day watching _Games of Thrones_. Like he made me skip class, and he was super excited. He had never watched it, but he showed up at like five in the morning with all the seasons on DVD and we watched it all. All thirty episodes, we didn’t finish or take a break until noon on the fifteenth. I fell asleep half way through Season two, and I woke up with Finnick yelling at the TV with Chinese take-out in hand.

So apparently we aren’t public enough in our relationship, I mean we sometimes get coffee if we’re both free, but it’s more of we’ll hang later when we don’t have to pretend to be in love with each other.

‘Why is this so important to her?’ I ask, thankful that I don’t have a social media presence.

He shrugs, ‘She wants me to be happy.’

‘And forcing you into an arranged marriage is happy?’

Finnick shrugs again, he shrugs a lot, and he ends up lying on my sofa, his long legs falling off because I’m on the opposite arm. He looks completely at home here, and sometimes it scares me how comfortable he seems to be integrating himself into my life.

‘Well it’s to you.’

‘What?’

‘Of all the society girls, you have never had a sex tape, a drug addiction, an abortion, or an ex-boyfriend whose going to try to out buy my family’s company.’ Finnick lists and I put names to faces. Cashmere Roberts had a sex tape circulate when she was eighteen, Poppy went to rehab and no one’s seen her since.  The redhead…her last name is Fox…what’s the first name? Oh it doesn’t matter, but she got caught in this scandal and they reported her leaving Planned Parenthood .

‘Ex-boyfriend who’s going to try to buy you out?’

‘ _Gossip Girl._ ’

I was not expecting that.

‘So I’m convents? That’s why you chose me?’ Or Mags chose me. Still not sure how I got roped in via Mamá.

‘Well…no.’ Finnick shifts, ‘It was you and Jo. You’re obviously the better choice. Sucks for you, you didn’t really get to choose.’

‘Peeta and I would have had the quietest children.’ I say absently, before kicking his feet away and taking up the other end of the sofa. ‘I thought you and Jo had this plan. You guys get married and you can keep sleeping around, and Jo can be with the love of her life.’

‘Well plans change.’ He says noncommittally. I nod, and he tosses me his phone.

Jo has retweeted the picture and replied with _‘#getafuckingroom #coupleslikeyouaredisgusting’_

My reply is something stupid, and I know I’ll regret it later, but I extend my arm and use the front camera to take a picture. I make it grey scale, and I like it.

Finnick is still lounging on my sofa making a face while holding his hot chocolate. I’m in between his legs smirking.

I reply to Jo’s tweet with the photo, but Finnick is the one who adds the hashtag : _you wish you were as boring as us._

* * *

 

It becomes Monday with Finnick once again spending the weekend at my place. It’s not intentional, though I swear to god my laundry is more his clothes than my own. It’s just we spend Friday nights playing video games, so it’s normal for him to pass out on my couch, and then we go our separate ways on Saturday, only to probably end up having dinner with Jo and whatever girl she’s seeing  at a new place wherever, and then more Netflix.

We really are boring.

So I am not prepared for the sudden whispering that happens when I exit class, to find Finnick in a suit, leaning against an ivy covered wall.

‘What are you doing here?’ I say in greeting. Finnick doesn’t answer me, but pulls me into a hug. He kisses the top of my head.

‘Beetee Latier is in town.’ He says, ‘We’re doing lunch.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’ I complain as he ushers me into a black cab.

Beetee Latier is one of the most important people in technology. Not just computers, but in the wires itself. He did some cool thing back in the...seventies?  I don’t actually know. I just know he’s really important in that part of society, that his partner Wiress was attacked in the eighties and suffered a bit of a psychological break, and he doesn’t go to a lot of events.

‘I just found out.’ Finnick says, giving the address to Gotham Bar and Grill, ‘He wants to congratulate us.’

‘Oh.’

We know we’re getting married, but we haven’t actually told anyone but Jo. Or at least I haven’t. It’s not something we really want to talk about, so Beetee congratulating us is odd. I guess Mamá or Mags told him.

Probably Mags, she likes him. I think she collects people who interest her like Haymitch Abernathy, who is the alcoholic. He inherited his family’s fortune at eighteen, when he was the only one who didn’t die in a house fire.  I actually don’t know how his liver is still functioning.

Apparently he was shuffled in and out of rehab for years by Mags, Beetee and Chaff, who does something in food. I think he’s the owner of some super market chains, I don’t actually know.

‘Wiress will be there.’ Finnick says, and I’m not sure if that’s comforting or not. I’ve met her twice. She’s a nice woman, tall, slender and very pale as if the outside scares her. But after what she went through, I understand.

I feel so underdressed in a black chiffon lapel short sleeve mini dress. My ballet flats, my school bag with my hair down makes me look so underdressed compared to Finnick who is his business casual. His loafers and maroon dress pants, and the button down black cardigan overtop a white dress shirt, with a navy overcoat cuts a fashionable and dashing figure.

‘Okay.’ I say, as Finnick finishes my coffee for me. He makes a face. I drink my coffee black, because that’s how Mamá drinks it, and Finnick likes his coffee extra sweet.  

‘It’ll be fine.’ Finnick says, tracing circles on my palm, he’s smiling reassuringly, and I don’t know if I’m worried more about how I’m dressed or the meeting.

‘Have you seen the preview for Thief?’ I ask, as we drive pass a GameStop. I really don’t like video games, Finnick and Jo love them, and Finnick ended up bringing his X-Box to my place, so he could finish whatever game he was playing.

It hasn’t left and it looks so out of place.

‘It’s already out.’ Finnick says. ‘Do you want to play it?’

I shrug. ‘It looks cool.’ And that’s all I can really say for it. Finnick nods seriously, like I gave something interesting to contribute besides thinking: _oh the graphics look cool_ , and holds up his phone and takes a picture of me.

Before I can demand to see the photo he’s tapping away, and I’m pretty sure it’s on Instagram.

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘It would be easier if you had an Instagram.’ Finnick says, ‘Or any social media. You don’t even have Facebook.’

‘I like my privacy.’ I argue, feeling self-conscious, as I pull out my own phone and find Finnick on twitter. It’s basically my most googled thing now. Finnick Odair’s twitter, just to make sure I don’t miss some weird picture of me while eating or something. ‘I don’t need my life it in the public.’

‘Neither do I.’ Finnick says, as I wait for the picture to open, and I get the stupid question why I haven’t opened it in the app, and would I like to download it. ‘But the thing is, if you’re so no access people will try even harder to find out about you. So give the illusion of a social presence.’

The picture is me, with a half-smile as I embarrass myself over what I think about a video game. He’s captioned it: _Fall in love with a girl who pretends to like video games so you can talk about it._  

‘Really?’ I ask, and he smirks at me in response. The past…thirty or so photos are Finnick and I or just me, and the occasional drink or book. If I go back far enough there are some selfies, more pictures of drinks, and some pictures of boats, beer, surfing and other stuff.

There is Jo in a few pictures and Mags in more. But there is no other woman who features as predominantly as me.

Finnick doesn’t answer me, because our cab driver stops and Finnick pays him with a twenty. He helps me out, and I clutch my Macbook to my chest, while his arm wraps around my waist and leads me into the glass window restaurant, packed with people taking a late business lunch.

I’m trying to not look at the people dressed better than me, and the eyes that look at us a bit judgemental. We’re not ridiculously young, twenty-one and twenty-three, and we’re dressed in designer clothes and we both have the money to eat here. But I’m not visible really, maybe in the fashion world, but to business people I’m just a girl stupid enough to not really wear a proper coat.

‘Latier.’ Finnick says confidently to the maître d, and she smiles at him with bedroom eyes.  Finnick is attractive. He is honest to god the best looking person I have ever met, and he dresses to accent his features so he knows it. The stuff about him being a sex god isn’t just hearsay; no he’s slept with more woman than I know. It’s not a point of pride to me, but he wears it as one.

She dismisses me with a once over, and Finnick kisses my forehead in such a showy gesture that I roll my eyes.

I know we’re supposed to sell this as real, but really?

We’re led to a small circular table in the back, where Beetee Latier and Wiress are already waiting.

‘Finn.’ Beetee says enthusiastically, shaking his hand, like one does to a favourite nephew. ‘And Annie!’

He pulls me closes and kisses both my cheeks, ‘Hello.’

Beetee is a medium height man with dark skin and a bit of grey by his temples. He’s dressed simply, in slacks and a darker button down with the sleeves rolled up. His glasses are thick framed and black. ‘It’s been a while little one.’ He tells me, all I can do is nod because I vaguely remember meeting him. ‘You remember my partner Wiress?’

Wiress is in her late fifties, her hair dark and cut short. Her dress is a pretty shade of besiege with thise finite beading. She’s very pale and she offers me a shy smile.

I don’t actually know if they’re married or not. Well… I assume they aren’t married; do people refer to their married spouse as their partner?

Maybe?

Either way Wiress has been with Beetee since before I was born

‘Of course.’ Finnick says warmly, holding out his hand and when she takes it he moves in slightly to hug her. Her eyes widen at the sudden movement but she doesn’t move away.

‘Nice to meet you.’ I say, offering my hand.  She takes it and shakes it warmly. ‘I’m Annie.’

‘My partner in crime.’ Finnick says, as we sit. I roll my eyes.

The last time we were at a restaurant like this, we got pushed into our engagement. And I poured wine on his head, I can tell Finnick remembers because he hands me the wine list with a wink.

‘Choose your weapon wisely.’

‘Do you prefer red or white?’ I ask, running through the list.

Finnick seems to be considering it, ‘Well it depends how much clothing you have to dry-clean?’

I look up and our exchange is not lost on our company.

‘I like this one.’ Wiress says, pointing to the Chablis Christian Moreau from Burgundy, France.

‘Well you two seem to be settling well.’ Beetee comments, before announcing he will be having Belgium ale. I don’t drink beer but from the serious nod Finnick gives him when here the brand, I’m assuming it’s quiet good. At the back of the wine list, there’s the beer selection and under India Pale Ale is _Odair Breweries, Ireland_.

The little surge of pride from seeing the name is a bit odd, but I don’t think about it.

‘Adapt or die.’ Finnick says, and I guess all pretenses are gone. And it’s freeing that someone knows and we don’t have to pretend.  Though if I’m honest, I don’t think we’re pretending. We’re sort of friends, and sort of friends can go out for dinner.

Right?

‘I don’t need anything really dry cleaned.’ I tell Finnick. ‘I think I’ll try the Moreau. Thank you for the suggestion.’

Wiress smiles at me with this secret shy smile.

When our drinks and starters are ordered, it’s just chitchat about movies and things. Nothing really serious, and I relax.

‘Annie’s started gaming,’ Finnick says conversationally, and there’s this glint in his eyes that makes me realize I’m going to regret this story.

‘Oh?’

‘Mhmm. I was playing Assassin’s Creed, and I brought it over and it’s just hilarious watching her.’ Finnick continues, ‘She wanted to play, so I brought C.O.D, and I have wireless controllers.’

I groan and try to cover my face, because I know what story this is and I know what he’s going to say.

‘We were playing, and I was trying to figure out why she kept dying, and when I saw her she was button mashing with the controller the wrong way.’ Finnick and Beetee laugh, while Wiress shoots me a sympathetic smile and pats me hand.

‘He didn’t tell me I was doing it wrong.’ I say weakly, as our starters come. I got the seafood salad, while Finnick chose the bass ceviche.  Beetee and Wiress got the winter vegetable soup and the Long Island Pekin Duck and Foie Gras Terrine. ‘He made us play online and I couldn’t figure out how to move for like an hour.’

Most of the people who killed me were Finnick; I’m not sure what to think about that. But he was cackling beside me.

‘I figured you’d realize it eventually!’ he says in defense, and I roll my eyes. ‘But seriously, Beetee, you’ve gotta help me. Annie is so against social media it’s astounding.’

‘No it’s not.’

‘I don’t like social media either.’ Wiress says softly, ‘I much rather talk to someone face to face than…twerk at them.’

Finnick almost spits up his beer, and Beetee looks like he’s about to laugh too.

‘Tweet. It’s  tweeting not twerking.’ I say, ‘I prefer that too. I don’t want people to know about my life.’

‘But you’re marrying Finnick Odair, everyone wants to know.’ Wiress says logically.

‘It’s my curse.’ Finnick grins, ‘But seriously, just open an Instagram account and maybe post a picture of coffee. Just do something and it’ll be fine.’

* * *

 

I figure out why Finnick wants me to get onto social media, stupidly slow. I’m studying at this coffee shop, when Jo comes in and drops down beside me and shoves her phone in my face.

The entire screen is a bunch of tweets to Finnick, from a variety of people mostly girls asking him about the ballerina skank or the money slut.

Well then.

I stare at the screen, trying to figure out how I became all these horrible words.

‘So twitter works like this, you can tweet at someone, and they get the notification and they can read the tweet.’ Jo explains, with an Americano, ‘These are just from today.’

So Finnick constantly gets tweeted about me in all these horrible words.

‘He’s trying to protect you. In a really piss fucking poor way.’  She continues, ‘He thinks if you have a social media presence people will fall in love with you like-because you’re so fucking harmless. He also thinks if he keeps on Instagraming pictures of you guys they’ll get a hint and leave you two alone.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘Of course you didn’t.’ Jo’s cross or annoyed, I can’t tell which. ‘Finnick’s a fucking idiot who thinks you’re going to break because of the shit they’re saying. I call bullshit.’

Jo leans forward, ‘Because I know Annie fucking Cresta. And she’s a bad ass. When some jealous crazy ass ballerina tried to say you were sleeping with teachers because you kept on beating her, you did a final exam on the spot, without studying to prove you were smarter. You got into fucking Julliard without name dropping, on pure fucking talent, and were given the biggest scholarship because they didn’t want you training overseas, and you turned the scholarship down. There’s no way in fucking hell you’d let those words pointless whatevers say get you down because you are better than them.’

I know I should be moved by this speech, but all I can think of is that what they think I am?

Finnick isn’t an actor, he’s a grad student but there’s so many people who love him and want his attention,  I knew there would be people who hated me, I just didn’t expect it to be so wide scale.

I fiddle with my phone, and Jo frowns.

‘Are you even-‘

‘How’s Katniss?’ I interrupt. I look up enough to see Jo burn red before glaring at me, and returning to her normal skin tone.

‘Fine.’ She says gruffly. ‘Happy to be Gale.’

‘How is she?’ I ask, lining up her Americano and my coffee mug. My open Macbook and her clutch frame the small table, and I take the picture.

‘He.’

‘What?’ I look up from my filters, surprised and a stormy expression is on her face.

‘Gale is a guy.’ She tells me.

‘Are you sure?’

I have never heard of Gale as a boy’s name, only for women over fifty who smell like cookies. Who would do that to a kid? Deliberately name their son a girl’s name?

I mean couldn’t you go with Alex or Jesse, something that’s not so ambiguously female.

‘Yup.’ She pops the ‘p’, and takes her phone back to get to the Facebook profile of one Gale Hawthorne, and yes his profile picture is him with one arm around Katniss, the other holding a beer, while he’s staring deadpan at the camera.

‘Wow.’

Gale Hawthorne is a first year at Wyoming State University, in earth science. So I think that means he’s smart, I’m not quite sure.

And he is decidedly male.

‘I’m sorry.’ I say.

‘Don’t be.’ Jo shakes her head. ‘Who the fuck names a boy Gale?’

At least you can tell why we’re friends.

‘Besides, when I kissed her, she kissed me back.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah, right before her and her family left. I kissed her and she kissed me back, she put her tongue in my mouth.’ Jo says faux casually. ‘So she’s not one hundred percent straight.’

‘She has a boyfriend.’ I remind Jo. So even if Katniss isn’t straight, there’s still someone else in the picture, and we can’t just ignore it.

Jo shrugs. I really hate when people shrug. It’s like a hand wave, saying that it’s not important, when actually it’s a big deal. There is someone else in the picture, Jo knows this, and she should back off.

I wonder if my bitterness comes from the fact that right now Finnick is probably fucking Glitter or Glimmer or whoever keeps texting him Friday nights at one in the morning when we’re doing gaming or The Walking Dead.

He’s obviously still doing her, if she keeps texting him.

I don’t know why he’s trying to keep it subtle. Nowhere in the contract is there a clause where he has to be faithful. I will be, but that’s because when I’m with someone, even this way, I’m with them. It’s just them.

But it’s never going to be just me and Finnick.

That’s getting harder to swallow for some reason.

I don’t want to think about this, about Finnick fucking some girl in his condo on the West End which I’ve never stepped foot in, because he’s brought so many other girls past the threshold and I’m not the same as those girls, I’m not disposable, forgettable, one time use only.

I’m not.

I’m Annie Cresta, I’m more than just a one night stand.

Right?

But I am. I am because I lost my virginity in Finnick’s bed when I was fifteen and I thought he loved me or least gave a big enough damn about me that he wouldn’t sleep with anyone else that weekend.

But at the beach party Saturday night, he ignored me completely for this red head and her blonde friend. He took them both to his room and fucked him, and I had to sleep in the guest bedroom, and I had never been so humiliated in my life.

I couldn’t even stop crying when I called Mamá, telling her I wanted to go home right away, that I hated Finnick and I needed to come home. Mamá and I couldn’t book a plane to leave until nine the next morning, so I had to sit through breakfast with Reilly, all red eyed and puff from sobbing all night, and we both watched as those girls left, and Finnick came trailing down after them, like nothing happened out of the ordinary.

Reilly didn’t even react.

I guess he was used to it, Finnick’s tissue way with women.

So I’m no better than any of them, he used me and I’m disposable. The only thing is, I’m now a package deal with him. He’s attached to me legally, and he’s got to be more subtle with who he fucks and how he fucks them.

I’m going to go crazy, always paranoid that he’s not actually meeting business people, but some blonde woman named Glimmer in their love nest in the Village, where he’s happy and sweet and in love or just fucking her brains out because I’m not enough for him.

I won’t even sleep with him.

Obviously I’m not enough.

I’m never enough.

I feel sick and I drink the rest of my coffee in on go, trying to drown the nausea with caffeine, and I think I made a big mistake.

‘If she’s happy,’ I say hesitantly, and Jo looks at me concerned. I must have been stuck in my head for longer than usual, ‘If she’s happy Jo, don’t fuck that up for her. She’s…she’s allowed to be happy. She’s allowed to be happy with someone whose not you.’

‘I’m just letting her know that there’s an alternative.’ Jo reassures and it doesn’t make me feel better, it just makes the sick feeling in me rise. ‘In case she wakes up and realizes I’m the better choice.’

I guess some people are Betties and others are Veronicas. The Veronicas, like Jo and Finnick, and Katniss get a choice. People want to be with them.

The Betties get what’s left over.

I’m an Ethel.

I’m no one’s choice.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finnick's Side of the Story is here http://seevikifangirl.tumblr.com/tagged/finnick%27s-Instagram
> 
> And um...sorry.

It’s near the end of the academic year, and people are busy making plans.

Will it be summer in the Hamptons? Or Paris in July?

How about both?

Well, as long as you pass. Don’t want to be stuck in school over the summer you know.

* * *

 

Everyone has bad days.

That is the universal truth of life.

My bad day just happens to be the worst. I wake up late, and I don’t have a chance to shower so I have to rush to campus, where I rip my tights. It’s cold, and I can’t do anything about because in all my frizzy  unkept tiredness, I have to present to a seminar group to get approval for my HTP.

And, lack of caffeine or stress or just some cocktail of those two makes me nervous, speed read my notes and crash and burn in a beautifully public factor.

I manage to get out of the conference room, and on the phone to Jo before breaking down.

_‘What?’_

‘I just failed.’

_‘What?’_

‘I just failed my stupid presentation because you have to publically speak and who needs to talk to people anyway?’ I’m blabbing fast and hard, my words coming out mangle because of my tears.

 _‘So you’re taking a vow of silence?’_  Jo sounds unamused.

‘Yes.’ I leave Julliard, I have more classes but I just want to make a little pain cacoon, with blankets and shitty rom coms and never leave.

My bed is safe.

I should stay there forever.

* * *

 

About half an hour later, my condo door gets unlocked, and Finnick drops onto my queen bed where I’m stretched out of my stomach scaring me from  _The Parent Trap_

‘Oh, strip poker, we should play.’  Finnick says, pushing his way into my nest of blankets, falling onto his stomach, and in one fluid movement, he’s wrapped me in his arms, and gotten popcorn.

‘Why are you here?’

‘Jo called me.’ Obviously. ‘She said I was failing my fiancé duties, and that she’s wearing my balls as a necklace if you were still crying.

‘Not crying.’ I say, but he’s looking at me. My contacts are off, and my eyes are puffy. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

‘Glad someone is here, or glad I’m here?’ Finnick wants to know.

I don’t even pause, when I say ‘You.’

His smile takes over his face, and he kisses my hair.

I’ve given up.

I’m not in love with him, but he’s like warm milk. Southing, calming, and something that reminds me of home and innocence and childhood.

What’s done is done.

He is going to cheat on me, and I can just accept it with sad eyes or confront him.

I haven’t decided which I’ll do yet, but that will come.

Right now, watching Disney movies with him is all I need.

* * *

 

I wake up in the middle of the night, Finnick is still beside me, and only instead of Disney on my Macbook he’s watching  _300_. Besides the first night of Fashion Week, when Finnick’s slept over he’s been on the couch, it’s disorienting, and I have to blink several times to focus.

He’s on the phone, in a low voice, talking quickly.  I rub my eyes and sit up, and in the low light from the Macbook screen, there’s worry and something like nausea on his face. I move  to the edge of the bed, still wrapped in a comforter, and I do what Mama does when I look worried, I trace slow steady designs into his back.

He turns, still on the phone, and pulls me into his lap. When he hangs up his phone, he buries his head into my neck and holds me.

‘Gran had a stroke.’ He says into my skin, I flinch at his hot breathe on my neck, and at the words. ‘She’s in the hospital in Dublin. I have to-‘

Oh god.

‘Give me a twenty minutes.’ I say, before turning around and kissing his forehead. I leave his lap while he looks numb, and I pull a suitcase and quickly pack. I change, and Finnick doesn’t even try to stare, he looks so surprised.

Reilly died when he was seventeen, and Mags is in the hospital. I grip and groan about her, because she is the matriarch of our world.  And yes, she fusses and fumbles and grumbles, and once told me that I look like I drowned, but she’s Mags.

She’s not supposed to die.

And Mags basically raised Finnick to being an adult. She kept him away from his bitch of a mother.

Mags is his only family.

‘Come on.’ I take his hand, and I lead him out of my place, making sure he has his beg. He grips my hand like it’s a life raft and his face is white.

He seems to be in a daze, while I get a cab and lead him to his condo.

‘Pack.’ I prod him, and he acts on autopilot, getting a case and dropping suits, shaving cream, shoes and other odds and ends. I find his passport, and I book us a flight to Dublin leaving in three and a half hours.

It doesn’t take him long, but we have to rush to make it to the airport, international flights mean you have to be there at least, three hours ahead.

I hold Finnick’s hand the entire time, as he moves slowly.

Only once we’re seated in First Class, does he talk.

‘Gran…Gran is…’

I kiss his palm from our intertwined fingers.

‘I’m here.’ I tell him, because I haven’t a clue what Mags’ condition is, and I don’t want to make empty promises that she will be alright, because she’s eighty-six and not a lot of people live that long. But I don’t want to hurt Finnick; I don’t want Mags to die. ‘I’m always going to be here.  I love you, and I am here okay?’

Finnick doesn’t answer me, but he squeezes my hand so I think he heard me.

I sleep for the rest of the flight, and when I wake up, Finnick has what looks like an untouched cold coffee on his tray, and he’s looking out at the clouds on the grey Ireland sky.

Somewhere during the almost seven hour flight, something switched in Finnick, and he’s got semblance of control, though there are violet bruises under his eyes, and his eyes are bloodshot.

He winds me through the luggage carisol, and gets us a cab almost before I get my passport stamped. This is the first time I’ve ever been to Ireland, even though years ago Finnick and I would float in the ocean and plan this great big trip where he’d show me all his favourite places, and none of the touristy things I would want to do.

I don’t know why this memory comes to mind, because it’s a good ne and I am pretty sure that all the memories I will be making will be sad.

Finnick is silent to the cab driver, and his hand is tight on mine, like he needs reassurance that I’m here, and he’s not alone. I’m the one who pays, because Finnick and our luggage are already inside the hospital and the way the cab driver looks at me, dishevelled and in jeans and a sweater with ankle boots and a trench coat, with my hair falling out of the messy ponytail and the bags under my eyes, not even hidden by my glasses, makes me feel bad.

‘My prayers.’ The cab driver says gruffly, and I nod.

When I enter the hospital and find Finnick, I get the tail end of the explanation.

‘Mrs. Odair is in IOC currently, you can’t go into the room, but we can take you.’ The nurse says in purple scrubs with butterflies on it, keeping it professional by reading the information off a computer screen, despite the faint blush on his cheeks.  When he looks up, he sees me and frowns. ‘However only family can be let in.’

I open my mouth to argue-I flew seven hours to another country with about an hour’s notice I am for damn sure seeing Mags-but Finnick beats me.

‘She’s my wife.’

I’m too tired to argue, and really it’s just a matter of years, so I just look at the nurse with what I hope is a vindictive smile, but I’m not quite sure.

‘She’s in room J on the fifth floor, west wing.’ The nurse says, and I nod. Finnick with our suitcases are already heading to the elevator.

‘It’s going to be okay.’ I say, and it feels wrong. I don’t think he heard me.

I’m silent, holding his hand as we find the room.

We can’t go in, but there are glass windows half way up the walls that let us see her.

Finnick drops the suitcases by their handles at the door and rushes foreward. His palms pressed flat against the glass, and he’s a close as he can possibly be, staring at Mags.

‘Gran,’ I hear him say more to himself than to me.

I’m thankful for the glass, we’re unable to hear the sounds of the many machines she’s hooked up to because of it. I think hearing the sounds would be too much for him.

Mags lies with her eyes closed on the bed, with an ivy and a breathing apparatus and a heart monitor attached. She’s never looked so small or fragile like this in my entire life, and my heart drops several feet.

I come up beside Finnick and wrap my arms around his middle, and I feel him collapse in my arms.

I hold him while he cries.

* * *

 

Mama comes sometime the next morning. We didn’t leave the hospital, usually staff make you leave. At least they did that to me when Jo broke her leg and they wouldn’t let me sleep there overnight.

The fact that they let us stay overnight makes me feel like there isn’t a getting better, that this is it and they’re giving us every second with her.

I slept poorly in the chairs provided, I don’t think Finnick slept at all. I’ve only left him to get coffee for us every few hours. Neither us have the stomach for food.

Mama comes in a trench coat, and a whirlwind of somber energy.

‘Finnick,’ she breathes, ignoring me to envelope Finnick in a hug. ‘Oh my darling boy. Be strong, my boy. Be strong.’

Finnick hugs her back, and it strikes how young and little Finnick looks, and I wonder if this is what he was like at his father’s funeral.

‘How long have you been here?’ Mama asks me, letting Finnick go and hugging me.

‘Almost an entire day.’

‘You haven’t left?’ I shake my head.

Mama sighs, but she doesn’t move to make Finnick and I go to the Odair estate. Instead she holds me close, the way you hold your family when you’re in the hospital, tighter and with all the love you feel in the world.

Family is the most important thing.

And we’re watching Finnick lose his family.

I don’t know what to do, how to help him. I wasn’t there for Reilly, but he had Mags, and while Reilly Odair was a lovely man, always ready for a joke, and he educated me in different types of beer, I don’t know how good of a father he was.

But Mags, Mags from my childhood memory was like a stern headmistress, knowing you could be better, pushing you until you were better, never letting you give up and you finally ace that calculus test, giving you the biggest, proudest, most grandmotherly smile you could think of.

Mags is Finnick’s rock, and I don’t know what he’s going to do when his foundation falls out from beneath him.

I move out of Mamá’s arms and go back to Finnick who is still standing at the glass, one hand with a cold plastic coffee cup.

I hug Finnick.

‘I’m not ready.’ He tells me hoarsely. ‘I’m not ready.’

I cry.

* * *

 

Mamá leaves to bring all our bags to the Odair Estate, while Finnick stares at his grandmother wasting away from behind the glass.

I’m not medically inclined, but I’m pretty sure the longer someone is in a coma, the worst off they are.

‘Mrs. Odair?’ A nurse calls, and we both jump.  I instantly look for Mags, but I realize it’s me that the haggard nurse is looking for, the look on his face when he realizes it is not Mags is too heartbreaking to think about, ‘Can we have a word?’

I nod, and pick my purse off the floor from the straight back chair. ‘I’ll be right back.’ I murmur, but I don’t know if Finnick hears me, even though he nods.

I step into the tile hall, and there’s a doctor, and Mamá waiting.

‘Hallo Annie.’ The Doctor says, ‘I am Doctor McFadyen, your husband’s grandmother’s head doctor.’

It’s a mouthful of a title.

‘Your mother thought it would be best to tell you before you tell your husband.’

‘[Puedes llorar ahora, para que cuando él se cae a pedazos se le puede ayudar a.](http://./)’ Mamá says quickly.  I nod.

‘This is Mrs. Odair’s third ischemic stroke in two years.’ Dr. McFadyen tells me, ‘Her last stroke partially paralysed her and there was unrecognisable damage to her speech centers. Currently she has had no brain activity in the three days since she had her last stroke, there wasn’t enough oxygen to get to her brain in time.’

Dr. McFadyen’s voice is clinically calm, like she tells this to people on a daily basis.

My hand is covering my mouth; the one that isn’t clinging to Mamá’s arm like that is the only thing keeping me standing.

‘What are you saying?’ My voice isn’t calm, it isn’t even. It wavers and I feel like crying.

‘We would like to take her off of Life Support.’

‘[Es inteligente mi querida niña.](http://./)’ Mamá murmurs in my ear, ‘[Ella ya se ha ido. Deje que su cuerpo se vaya en paz. Ha vivido mucho tiempo, que se vaya](http://%2C/).’

‘[Él no está listo.](http://./)’ I breathe. ‘I can-Are you asking me to tell Finnick you want to take Mags off Life Support?’

‘It’s the best solution.’ Doctor McFadyen says, ‘And no, we will tell him. Your mother thought you should know beforehand.’

I guess it’s not mature, but I turn on my heels and go barreling back to the room where I wrap my arms around Finnick’s waist and cry into his shirt.

‘Annie…?’ Finnick asks, somewhat in a daze, torn from whatever thought or memory he was in. ‘Is everything okay?’

No.

No nothing is okay. I just want him to hold me selfishly, before I have to hold him.

Please don’t take Mags God.

Please.


	7. Chapter 7

For Finnick’s side of the story you can find it [here](http://seevikifangirl.tumblr.com/tagged/finnick%27s-Instagram)

* * *

 

Life and Death go in a circle, and everything that was old comes back in.

Circle of Life shit going down.

And all the secrets you keep deep inside, they’re coming back up to air.

Karma is a bitch.

* * *

Mags dies April 21st in her sleep. Finnick fought with the doctors about taking her off life support, and Mamá tried to make Finnick see it was better for Mags.

I said nothing, and for the first time in forever I was not on Mamá’s side. I was on Finnick’s.

I will always be on his side, I told him as such. And the iron grip on my hand, tells me he needs me more than anything now.

Finnick cries, and I try not to.

I need to be strong, but I don’t know how to be.

My father died and Mamá and I went to the funeral, and everyone stared. We were his old family, and they would have said we didn’t belong, if we weren’t Crestas.

That’s the only funeral I’ve ever been to. Finnick had to bury his father.

I hold onto Finnick, but he doesn’t hug me back.

I don’t know what to do.

* * *

 

It’s like he’s on autopilot, or shock.

Finnick wakes up before I do every morning, and he’s out behind the pub in their brewery making jokes that aren’t exactly PG, running a bar like it’s second nature, and well…Rielly Odair was his father, and he was always behind the bars, so maybe it is.

But Finnick doesn’t touch me, or hug me, or even look at me really. He’s distancing himself, and I know we’re not together-together, but isn’t this something you’re supposed to be there for your fiancé?

If I didn’t know he cried into my shoulder while I pretend to sleep, I would think he was okay, if not distant with me.

Which really was what I was striving for.

That makes me sounds like a bitch.

And this is not the time to think about that.

Finnick needs me.

Or at least…he might. There’s going to be a break down, he need to talk about it, rather than pretend it never happened, that Mags never existed, which is what he is doing. He hasn’t mentioned her name once, and is leaving myself and Mamá to plan her funeral, which because of her will was already planned.

I tried to show him the obituary that Jo sent me from the New York Times, and he didn’t even look. He hasn’t touched his phone, and I’ve seen he has at least thirty missed calls, ten of them personal, who seemed to have given up and called me, and the next twenty are just labelled “Press”.

I don’t know what to do, so I follow him like a shadow, watching him thrive pouring drinks and giving advice, while Mamá oversees whatever has to be done for a funeral, tailored to Mags satisfaction.

When Jo comes, maybe she can make him feel more like a person less like a character.

* * *

 

I leave Finnick to go to the airport to pick Jo up, and I hold one Americano, fresh and hot for her.

‘If it isn’t Miss Crazy.’ Jo smirks, her suitcase rolling behind her. I can’t understand how she wears leather legging and a rip tank top with combat boots on a plane, or actually ever, but she’s just so familiar and spikey that I almost burst into tears.

‘You’re here.’

‘Course I am.’ Jo says easily, taking the Americano without losing her stride and continuing to the automatic doors. ‘Couldn’t let the Old Lady go without one helluva shindig.’

Jo was closer to Mags than I was, but they didn’t always see eye to eye. But that doesn’t mean Jo didn’t love her. I don’t know if there was anyone in the world who didn’t love Mags. I feel…hollow without her. It’s stupid, because I spent a good month being so outrageously mad at what she and Mamá did to Finnick and I; but I didn’t want her dead. I wanted her around to make me scarves like she always does. I wear them, even though the colour scheme of bright orange doesn’t match anything I possibly own, because that’s the most grandma-y thing someone has ever done for me and I was so jealous of Finnick, whose grandmother would always fly out to be with him, instead of having to come visit my grandma in Spain.

Mags has been a corner stone in my life, in all of our lives for years.

And now she’s gone.

And Finnick won’t even admit to it.

‘How is he?’ Jo asks when we get into the cab, headed towards the Odair Estate. The funeral-Wake,  Irish have wakes, right I keep on forgetting that- is in two days.

‘It’s like nothing ever happened.’ I say. ‘He won’t talk about it-to anyone. He won’t talk to me about anything.’

‘What?’ Jo’s has perfected the smoky eye; it looks amazing on her, and doesn’t at all remind me of a racoon. 

‘It’s like before. ‘ My voice breaks on that, and Jo looks alarmed.

She doesn’t do crying. She doesn’t do slopping make up, and physical affection that isn’t leading towards the horizontal. But she wraps m up like a drowning kitten and pets my hair like it’s the only thing she can do while I sob into her tank top.

Jo doesn’t say anything, but when the cab driver awkwardly lets us go. She finds Finnick and disappears with him for a few hours.

I shouldn’t be jealous.

Jo is my friend, my best friend. I trust him with everything. I love hr, even though we have nothing in common, and some of the time I don’t like her.

But she understands everything.

The loneliness, the fake face for publicity. How your life isn’t your own, but it’s a bargaining tool to ensure a legacy.

She understands.

But at the same why does she think she can make my fiancé acknowledge the death of his grandmother better than me?

Why?

How?

I mean, yes Finnick and Jo have a history. They slept together a few years back, in which afterwards Jo was quite positive she is a lesbian. They’re also incredibly close. I saw their iMessages once, it’s just the word ‘Penis’ back and forth, and I’m sure there’s some great symbolic meaning, but I don’t really get it.

Because Jo doesn’t like dick.

Is Finnick trying to convert her?

No. No Finnick’s an asshole. And yes he did have a threesome the night after we had sex the first time, and he’s never had a monogamous relationship. But he wouldn’t try to make someone who he respects, who is flat out “Uh no dick is gross. I like vagina” suck his dick.

He wouldn’t.

He’s not that big of an asshole.

Right?

Fuck.

I am a horrible person. Mags is dead, Jo’s his best friend and Finnick is acting abnormal. If she can make him happy, than who am I to stop this?

Why can’t I make him happy?

Wow.

I just became the most selfish person in the world.

Congratulations Annie, you’re a douchebag. Here have this Paps Blue and go hide in the closet under the stairs, you deserve the Durselys.

I sigh, and the book I’m pretending to read because I’m pretending to study falls off my lap.

I’ve always been an over thinker, and crippled with some abandonment issues means that I am not even pretending to pay attention to the history of women brewing beer.

P.S., beer was originally traditionally brewed by men, until it turned profitable, and well who wants women in charge of money? They’ll just spend it.

Remind me, who was the head of the treasury when we got into recession?

Misogynistic  programming bitches.

Mamá’s Jimmy Choos click on the tiles. I’ve always wondered why Mamá wears heels, she’s on her feet all day so it cannot possibly be comfortable; but I like the sound it makes on the tiles. It makes her sound powerful, in charge, like no one is worth her time unless she says so. Her heels click towards me, and I ignore her until she’s knelt down to look me in the eye.

‘[Oh mi querida niña.](.).’ Mamá clicks her tongue, ‘[Oh mi hermosa, chica fuerte](.).’

Mamá hugs me and she smells of satin, lace and chai tea.

‘[¿Por qué?](.)’

‘[Ella era de edad, ella había vivido una larga y hermosa vida increíble cariño. Estaba lista](.).'

I shake my head. ‘[Finnick no lo era. Finnick no lo era. Si ella lo amaba, ¿por qué iba a ir? Se suponía que debía permanecer.](.)’

‘Ana-‘

‘[Se suponía que debía estar aquí. Mags se suponía que era aquí. Ella no iba a dejarlo. ¿Cómo-cómo podía dejarlo](.)?’

Mamá falls silent.

I feel betrayed.

Parents are supposed to have all the answers. They’re supposed to get rid of the monsters under your bed, in your closet. They’re supposed to kiss your hurts and bandage you up. They’re supposed to know what to say every time.

And now, when I need to know why, why Mags died, why Mamá and the doctors thought that taking her off life support was a good idea, why anyone would leave Finnick alone when he needs someone so desperately to hold himself together right now, because his mother his fucking mother never even called him to say she’s sorry-Mamá has no answer.

And if Mamá doesn’t have an answer, than that means it can’t exist.

And if it can’t exist, that means Mags died for no reason.

She left Finnick alone for no reason at all.

Why?

'[Tal vez porque sabía que no lo iba a dejar solo.](.)’ Mamá say softly, like an apology. ‘T[al vez ella sabía que estabas a su lado, y que lo amaría más de lo que nunca podría amarlo.](.)'

I laugh.

It’s a great joke Mamá. Fucking hilarious.

Don’t do this.

Don’t push your idea of romance on me.

This isn’t about Finnick and my complicated fucked up…I can’t even call it a relationship that neither of us wanted.

This is about Finnick’s grandmother dying, his only family in the world.

And you think that she died because she thought I could love him?

'[Ella murió porque usted le dijo a los médicos que la llevara fuera del soporte vital](.).’ I spit.

Mamá jerks away like I slapped her.

Good.

I leave my book, and I take off down the corridor towards the nearest exit.  I don’t care that it was raining earlier and it’s cold and I don’t have a jacket.

I just don’t want to be here.

I want to be back in New York or Santa Fe and just have all of the bad things go away.

I don’t want this anymore.

I want Finnick to be normal again.

But I think he broke in a way I can’t glue him back, and he’s drowned because I am the worst person to save him, and now Jo’s trying to revive him.

But how do keep a dead man alive?

There’s no one there for him anymore.

And I did nothing.

I let Mags die. I sat back and watched and I didn’t take sides because Mamá is my family and Finnick is my…

Yeah.

I’m the worst.

* * *

 

I avoid everyone until it’s nearly nine at night, and then I go to my room. I do have my own room. It’s pastel colour and really nice, wooden handmade furniture. There’s a nice chair in the corner looking out at the view of trees, and I have tossed my trench coat there the first night.

I haven’t actually slept in my own room. I just followed Finnick to his room, assuming he would want some comfort, and he never kicked me out.

But with Jo here, there’s no point right?

For the first time since coming to Ireland, I sleep alone.

* * *

 

It’s a horrible sleep, one where I toss and turn, and the bags under my eyes are starting to form their own bags.

It feels weird.

It’s been a month, and I feel weird without Finnick’s weight on the mattress beside me.

This is bad.

I move in slow motion, groggy from lack of sleep; but I shower and dress in jeans and an oversized sweater, before making my way down to breakfast with my hair still wet.

Finnick, Jo, and Mamá are all sitting around the table, and I can tell instantly that Mamá has felt horrible about what she said last night, by the fact that she’s wearing an apron and my favourite breakfast is on the table.

There are fresh strawberries, not at all in season, and I haven’t a clue how expensive those would be, because I don’t know a lot about Ireland, but I know strawberries are not native. Fresh whipped cream, that Mamá beat herself sits in a bowl beside fluffy Belgium waffles. Mamá and I spent hours making whip cream and waffles while I was growing up.

It was our thing.

‘[Mañana querida](.).’ Mamá says, jumping up. ‘[Voy a empezar en su tortilla ahora](.).’

I don’t acknowledge Jo, whose raising her eyes. She took Spanish as her language since she was seven, frustrated that I could speak something and she couldn’t, and while she’s a bit…lacking in parts, she still understands most of it. Unless if we speak fast.

Though Spain Spanish is different than the Spanish she learnt.

Finnick doesn’t even look up from his coffee, but he’s half finished his omelette so it’s good he’s eating real food, not things you can drink.

I wrap my arms around Mamá’s waist as she whisks the egg yolks together in a small metal bowl.

‘[Lo siento.’](.) I whisper. Mamá kisses my forehead in return.

I don’t like being mad at Mamá, because she’s always on my side and I feel like a horrible person for being mad at my mother.

I hug Mamá the entire time she makes my omelette, it’s just ham and cheese but no one can ever make it the right way, the way Mamá makes it, so I rarely ever eat eggs. I mean, what’s the point trying subpar eggs when I already know my Mamá makes the best?

Mamá isn’t the type of person to come out and apologize, but she made all of this, and I know she’s sorry.

‘How is the omelet Finn?’ Mamá asks, sitting back in her chair, drinking her chai tea leisurly.

‘Good. Thanks.’

Jo stabs her knife dangerously close to his phone, and Mamá frowns from behind her tea cup.

‘It’s really fluffy Mrs. C’ Finnick amends and I just stare.

I don’t understand their friendship, when Jo thinks threatening to stab his phone with a knife is the most ideal way of getting she wants.

Wouldn’t a kick to his ankles work?

Although, to be honest, I’ve never had to work to get my way with Finnick. It always happens. As kids if I wanted to go to the museum or a musical, which he hates, I would tell him I wanted to go, he’d complain and say no, I would pout and then like the week later we would go.

And if he wanted to do something, I would go along. Finnick always had fun ideas, so there was no point in complaining.

Although that Haunted House was a bad idea.

But he took me to see two musicals, so we were even.

Jo digs the knife deeper.

‘It’s amazing. I’ve missed your eggs, I’ve spent five years dreaming you would open a diner and just serve eggs. Forget fashion, just open a diner. I’ll pose naked for you, and you can make people addicted to your omelettes. Hell you could run Mr. Mellrak out of business.’ Finnick says in a tone that’s not quite sincere, and now Mamá’s eyebrows are raised. Finnick turns to Jo, as if to ask if this was better, it’s a long pause but Jo nods her head slowly, and Finnick goes back to silently eating.

‘What are everyone’s plans for the day?’ Mamá says, like it’s a vacation, and we don’t have a Wake tomorrow.

‘Finn and me are going to the brewery.’ Jo announces, and from the flicker on his otherwise impassive face, I can tell this wasn’t his plan and he isn’t particularly thrilled.

‘Excellent.’  Mamá says, ‘Annie and I have plans.’

That’s news to me.

But I don’t have time to protest because a day with Mamá is better than a day of following the Finnick and Jo show.

Is it normal to feel excluded between your best friend and your fiancé?

~

The dishes are in the dishwasher, and Mamá tells me to get my trench coat, and we walk around the large stone estate.

‘[Es hermoso](.).’ Mamá says, ‘[Mags me dijeron que fue construido en el siglo XVIII.](.)’

It is. There’s green field forever, and if I ever get over my fear of horses, it would be great to go horseback riding.

The mansion is large, made of pretty reddish brick, but there’s the gorgeous grey stone wing, built originally. There’s this pretty balcony, where a breakfast table would be set up when it gets slightly warmer, and the stone is covered in ivy.

‘[Es tan grande. ¿Por qué necesitas diecisiete habitaciones?](.)’ I wonder.

'[Para los niños](.).’ Mamá’s eyes sparkle. ‘[Usted y Finn me está dando nietos, ¿recuerdas?](.)’

[‘No diecisiete años!’](.) I yelp. I’ve seen those documentaries about giving birth. My vagina hurt afterwards. Two. Maybe three.

Than if Finnick wants another child he can shove it out of his vagina.

Because I am done then.

Done.

‘[Ustedes dos pueden ser muy feliz](.).’

‘[Mamá no estoy teniendo diecisiete hijos. Yo no voy a ser un show de TLC!](.)’

Mamá laughs. ‘[Ahí está tu fuego. Me preguntaba dónde iba](.).’

‘[¿Qué quieres decir?](.)’

‘[Usted ha estado siguiendo Finnick como un perrito triste, tan preocupada por él que ha acumulado cada sentimiento herido y triste y no ha pensado en ellos.](.)’

‘[Soy su prometida; Se supone que debo hacer eso](.).’ I argue.

‘[Sí, pero no se supone para ser tragado por él. Usted siempre va a ser Ana Cresta, la hermosa mujer fuerte, usted puede cambiar de nombre, pero no te dejes Finnick Odair eclipsado por](.).’ Mamá says gently. ‘[Usted está tratando desesperadamente de salvarle de la ruptura, pero a veces de ruptura es una buena cosa, y uno se puede rehacer fuerte.](.)’

‘[Cómo?](.)’

Mamá sighs, ‘[Un alfarero tiene que lanzar sus creaciones en la llama para que duren no? Adversario, la vida, la pérdida de un ser querido le hará más fuerte.](.)’

'[Su metáfora es defectuosa.](.)‘ I say quietly. 

She waves that away like a fruit fly. ‘[No tiene importancia. Usted entiende que sí?](.)’

‘[Pero si Finnick tiene que hacer esto ... solo, ¿por qué Jo ayudarlo y no yo?](.)’ As soon as I say that, I want those words back. They sound whiney, selfish, and spoiled.

‘[Él tiene que atacar, dicen palabras que él tiene miedo de decir a usted](.).’

‘[Pero se supone que debemos casarnos! ¿Cómo se supone que este matrimonio para trabajar si no puede hablar conmigo?](.)’

[‘Ana le exilió durante cinco años](.),’ Mamá points out softly, ‘[el niño ha conseguido por fin volver a sus buenos libros, y él está aterrorizado de que si se enoja, te destierro él de nuevo](.).’

I’m silent.

There’s so much I want to say, but I can’t say it. I can’t say I did miss him for the five years, because that’s something I haven’t told Jo, and I haven’t even told Mamá. I was so mad, and that anger lasted a long time, until it evolved into dull hurt.  The type that rears its head when it rains or when something aggravates it.

I stopped reading tabloids after Finnick became prominent in them with a new girl every photo.

I don’t know what to do.

* * *

 

The morning of Mags’ wake, there’s fog.

I wake up alone, and I dress simply. It’s just a black dress from Chanel, and I wear pearls that Mags gave me when I turned thirteen. I wear ballet flats and my hair down.

I take my time, and I try to relive every good time I’ve ever had with Mags, but it’s hard because she was always on the periphery. Always there, but she never centered in my memories as a child, and even less so as a teenager because I was afraid of running into Finnick.

When I open my door, my eyes go wide.

Finnick, is sitting at my door.

‘Hey.’ He says dully.

‘Hi.’

I grip the door handle like its holding me up, and I remember what Mamá said. I’m not just his fiancée, I’m Ana Cresta. I’m more than that.

‘Can I come in?’ Finnick asks. I don’t move to let him in.

‘Depends. Are you going to ignore me again?’ There’s steel laced in my quiet voice.

‘No.’

I move aside, and Finnick stands slowly, his shoulder hunched and his suit mussed, he looks undone. He hasn’t shaven and his eyes are red.

He towers over me, and I’m reminded again, of the at least one foot height difference between us, but that goes straight out of my head when he wraps me up in his arms, and sobs into my neck.

It’s ugly dry tears, and he wheezes and shakes, like he’s hyperventilating. I just rub his back and hold him as tightly as I can. I kiss his forehead.

I don’t know how long we stay like this, but I hold him until he’s not crying anymore, and the trembling has becoming minute.

‘I’m sorry.’ He says, his head still in my neck, and his words muffle in a way that distort them.

‘You can’t ignore me Finnick.’ I say, and maybe this isn’t the time for this talk-hell it is not the time for this talk, but we’re having it because we need to. ‘I’m not leaving. So yell, scream, whatever, but get it through your skull that I’m not leaving. It’s me and you remember? Annie and Finnick against the world. Team…Odesta.’

‘Odesta?’

‘It works. But when things get tough, when you feel bad or angry or sad tell me. I am here. I will always be here. I’m your fiancée and this relationship won’t work, if you’re always there helping me like I’m a fucking charity case and I don’t get to help you.’

Finnick is silent, his head out from my neck, and his arms have shift from around my shoulders, to around my waist, which is more comfortable.

‘Do you understand?’

He nods slowly, like he’s in a trance, and I’m worried that I’ve just made a colossal mistake. Again.

And then he kisses me.

It’s sweet and desperate and I don’t know how to describe it, but it feels right and I kiss him back.

We stay like that for a while.

* * *

 

When we descend down to the foyer, there are a lot of people gathered. I don’t recognize half of them, but I suspect they are the employees of the Odair Brewery by the awkward way they hold themselves.  Chaff who is a CEO of some…forestry thing is already breaking in the beer with Haymitch. The two go way back, and they can control an atmosphere.

I think they’ll make this wake a party, but I don’t know.

Mags was important to them too.

Finnick and I stay and let people swarm us.

Everyone who Finnick has been ignoring comes at him to give his condolences.  Part of it is prosperity, elephants don’t have nothing on us; but most of it is sincere. Mags was the last of a different era, where we were untouchable royalty, and people might have hated us, but their hate was kept secret.

In the age of the internet, anyone can say anything with no accountability.

I’m worried about the press.

No one wants them, and while the Odair Estate is private property, it doesn’t mean that anyone will respect it.

Gloss, who is slightly older than Finnick, closer to thirty than he really likes to admit, hugs me and whispers in my ear, ‘Don’t worry Cash and I took care of the press.’

‘Thank you.’ I say.

Gloss and Cashmere were like older cousins. I was too young to be considered part of their crew, and they both sort of bucked the trend, with Cashmere becoming a really big model and Gloss becoming an actor; but they always were kind to me.

I think Cashmere saw me as her doll actually for the longest time. She tried that with Jo once, but Jo bit her. They’re not on good terms still.

When Finnick lets go of my hand it’s because Haymitch has started playing the fiddle, something Mags taught him, and it’s lost the feeling of a Wake, and become more of a party.

There’s still the blanket feeling of being sad, but I think Haymitch is trying to make people remember the good memories that Mags gave us.

Finnick and Cashmere are doing some sort of a jig, and I’m clapping along to the beat, as Jo drags Gloss who has no rhythm in a sort of a mockery.

I’m laughing, when I see the ice blonde walk up the path.

No.

I hurriedly leave the parlor to get to the door where I intercept Denise whatever her last name is.

‘What are you doing here?’ I say.

She’s brought a camera crew. I’m the only one outside, and I am the only one who will protect this Wake from the vileness of this evil bitch.

Denise adjusts her sunglasses, ‘I’m here to see my son.’ She says like I’m a fly.

‘No.’ I say. ‘You haven’t contacted him 

since you cheated on Reilly and left years ago. You lost that right to call him your son when you did that.’

‘And who the hell are you?’

‘Get the fuck out of this house. This is Mags’ Wake. His grandmother is dead, and if you had a decent human bone in your body you frigid bitch you would have called him to see how he was doing.’

‘And who are you to stop me?’ Denise’s voice is ice cold and I know why Finnick hates his mother, she turns words into knives, and cuts and eats people in huge chunks.

I don’t flinch.

I want to.

But I will not let this toxic woman hurt Finnick.

I will not let this evil woman trespass on Mags’ home.

‘Annie Cresta.’

‘Little girl that doesn’t give you authority to stop me from coming into my house.’

My eyes flash, and I draw myself to my full five foot height. Like hell this is her house.

Like hell she has any sort of authority here.

She left.

She left Finnick when he was six.

She has no claim to anything here.

She has no claim to Finnick at all.

None.

‘I’m his fiancée.’ I say, making my voice as cold and as cruel as his. ‘And you have not been an Odair for many, many years. Leave _now_ , before I make you.’

Denise glares and I glare back.

Someone, I suppose the producer clears his throat awkwardly. I don’t move.

This standoff goes on for five minutes.

Finally she, and her awful camera crew leave.

I stand guard for another ten minutes, before Finnick finds me.

‘Why are you out here?’ He asks, hugging me.

Its debate in my head, should I tell him, or should I not? He has the right to know. And maybe I was wrong; maybe he would want his mother here.

But Mags wouldn’t.

And this is about respecting Mags’ wishes.

‘Later.’ I promise. ‘I’ll tell you later.’

He nods confused, but he doesn’t push it and he takes me inside to dance.

He twirls me around and I smile. The fiddle music, the beer and wine and the stories being told make this more enjoyable.

Chaff’s laugh overwhelms the music, and when we turn, he’s standing on the coffee table, with a beer in his hand.

‘Way back when me and Haymitch were just kids, and we had nicked a bottle of gin. Well Mags found us, bare asses in the fountain at the Trevi Fountain and the old woman dragged us both by our ears kicking and screaming an’ hung over like shit down Rome before she made us sit and poured out every both of liquor we had bought.’ Chaff tells, and there’s affectionate chuckles, ‘After she made good and sure we had nothin’ left to drink, she took care of our hangovers and brought us gelato.’

I think that’s Mags in a nutshell.

She cared about you, even if she showed it in ways you don’t understand. She only wanted the best for all of us.

Cecelia tells a story next, of how she was pregnant with her first child, and terrified out of her mind, because she never really wanted to be a housewife, and she was scared that her first husband would use her pregnancy as an excuse to keep her at home. Mags helped her enroll in school, and babysat the child, Jennifer, while Cecelia had class, all the while keeping it a secret that Cecelia got a law degree until she was ready to confront her husband and leave.

Jo tells a story about being so mad about something, and not knowing what to do with her anger and Mags bought her a bunch of dishes and sat drinking tea while she threw them at a wall.

Finally Finnick gets up, and tells story after story about his grandmother.  He talks about the time he lost his hat in the turtle tank at an aquarium she took him to, completely exaggerated, everyone’s heard it and Mags is usually there interjecting and correcting him, and this time there’s no one correcting him, and you can tell by the pause in his story, where Mags would chime in.

There’s no dry eye in the house, and Finnick continues telling stories with tears running down his face, but he brings me up beside him, only letting go of my hand when he needs to use his hands to demonstrate things.

He gets people laughing.

I don’t know much about Finnick and Mags relationship; I know they were close. I know Mags raised him, because Denise checked out long ago. I know Mags loved him.

And I know in Heaven, holding court with the Angels, Mags is proud of Finnick.

* * *

 

It’s almost two in the morning, and the last of the guests have left.

‘Annie?’ Finnick calls, near the stairs while I begin to gather empty dishes. The staff will be here tomorrow to clean up, but I just don’t like mess. ‘Can you-?’

I nod and wipe my hands, and follow him up the stairs, to the end of the corridor where Mags’ bedroom door is waiting.

The creepiest part of a Wake to me is the fact that the deceased is washed, dressed and laid to rest in their bed for their last goodbye.

I’ve avoided the room, and I know Finnick has too. Mamá and Jo were the ones who dressed and washed Mags. For me, it’s just weird that Mags’ body will be there, in the room. Like she’s alive.

For Finnick, it’s probably too hard.

I’m silent, but I squeeze Finnick’s hand and he squeezes back, before he takes a deep breath and pushes open the door.

The first thing I notice is that Mags’ bed is a large walnut canopy bed. Then I notice her in it.

She is dressed in her Sunday best, a gorgeous Dior dress, and her eyes are shut and she looks like she’s asleep.

Mags looks lovely.

‘Gran…’ Finnick trails off, letting go of my hand, falling to his knees at her bedside. ‘Grandma…’He clutches her hand gingerly and he cries.

I move behind him and hug him as he cries.

It’s all I can do.

I hope it’s enough. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seevikifangirl.tumblr.com


	8. Chapter 8

It’s  summer bitches. And everyone is escaping the city to the Hamptons, to Paris, to Tokyo and Milan.

Anything is better than staying in the city that never sleeps, because in the heat, the sewer rats from Brooklyn make their way to the Upper East Side.

And any socialite worth her Prada knows that sewer rats are only good for one thing.

* * *

 

It’s the first summer since coming to Julliard that I am not going back to Santa Fe, and it feels weird.

Off, really, like someone’s pulling a great joke on me.

No one stays in New York over the summer.

Jo is getting crated off to the Hamptons, and I know I can drop by anytime.  Mamá is back in Spain, dealing with the family, and I know I’m supposed to go there some time.

But, in the blistering heat, Finnick and I are in the small clawed foot tub in my bathroom, in our underwear melting.

Romantic, isn’t it?

‘Oh,’ Finnick says, moving his feet which are propped up on my lower back. ‘I saw the first ad for the show.’

The show is the collecective term we have been using to address the new E trashy show staring Denise the Bitch; after the Wake, I told Finnick who made some quick calls, and we found out she has a new show, showing the life of the socialites-she’s forgetting of course, she’s not a socialite, she’s white trash and no one likes her.

Gloss and Cashmere have already commented on it on twitter and in interviews saying that E has no credibility for coming to a funeral of her ex-mother-in-law trying to confront her estranged son who has made it quite clear he doesn’t want anything to do with her.

It doesn’t work the way we want, it seems to make them think it’s going to be a great reconciliation between the two; and because of our plan A failing spectacularly, we’re  held up in my condo, because I refuse to go to his place.

And I’m not taking the paparazzi to Santa Fe. And Finnick doesn’t want them in Ireland.

So we’re stuck in New York.

And we only have papazzi because Finnick is infamous playboy, and apparently he has decided that after the funeral, that two hours is too long to not be near me.

Actually, the length of _The Amazing Spider-Man 2_ is sort of the limit right now. He couldn’t go to the premiere because he had to make up his exams that he postponed because of the Wake, so Jo and I went, and he was like a puppy.

He was waiting at the door, with Jo’s doorman and didn’t let go of my hand at all.

It was a bit suffocating.

Well okay, a lot.

But he just lost his only family, and I reassured him a lot that I’m always going to be here for him, so I understand the need to cling. It makes sense.

It’s just…I can make dinner without him right behind me.

My place is not big enough for two people.

‘How bad was it?’ I say lazily.

Finnick shrugs, ‘A lot of pictures of me…she’s obviously playing the I-want-to-connect-with-my-son card.’

‘She’s an idiot.’

Finnick raises an eyebrow.

‘She is!’ I insist. ‘You know they’re going to use the footage from the Wake.’  

Finnick laughs, and there is humour in it, though it’s a bit dark. ‘Well everyone else can see that Annie Cresta has her mother’s temper.’

I roll my eyes.  ‘I told her we were engaged.’

Finnick closes his eyes, ‘Well fuck.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I am not letting our engagement get announced on that show.’ Finnick mutters.

‘What are you going to do? A shotgun wedding?’

Finnick bites his lip, like he’s considering it.

‘ _No_. Finnick my mother will kill you. ‘ Mamá’s death threat deflates the idea in his head.

‘Well that might be the season finale,’ Finnick is thinking aloud, his voice softer and a bit hesitant, ‘When do these shows end? August? That gives us four months to announce our engagement…doesn’t need to be big. Not a circus.’

‘I thought you like being extravagant.’ I say innocently, and Finnick splashes  me.

‘No you dork, not for important things.’

Important things.

Our engagement is important.

I mean, I know it’s important.

But he’s never…he’s never really said it. It’s almost like I love you. Once you say it, you can never take it back.

And…

I said it.

And Finnick didn’t say it back.

And in the bathtub, is not the place to wonder if Finnick loves me or not.  Words, real words, not lies, not girls, not making people fall in love with him and want to hear his every throwaway word, is not his strong suit.

He’s also really bad at poetry.

I’ve found them, tucked into books or in my closet, just random slips of paper with some words and it’s not good.

I haven’t told him that poetry isn’t his forte, but I have been gathering all of the poems he leaves around and tried in the most chronological order, placed them in an album on my bookcase. I’m sure he’s seen it, because he reads as much as I do, and he’s bringing all his Sci-Fi and Merlin books over and they’re covering my Austen.

I need a new bookcase.

‘So no party? No skywriter?’

‘We could do couple sky-diving.’ Finnick muses.

‘What?’

‘You’d love it Annie, it’s one helluva rush.’

‘Finnick if you think you are going to get me on an airplane with the purpose of throwing myself out, you are insane.’ I warn him, and the hitch in my voice is very evident.

‘Scared of heights?’ Finnick grins at me, ‘I seem to remember this little ballerina girl who could do backflips while cliff diving.’

I flush.

I’m competitive, and Finnick liked to show off how many flips he could do, jumping off the top of higher and higher cliffs, and anything he could do, I could do better, backwards and in heels or on pointe.

I had a point to prove back then, when I didn’t realize how dangerous it was, and how easily we could have hit our heads on a rock and drowned.

Or broken something and I might have had to give up dancing.

‘I am not throwing myself out of an airplane.’ I say firmly.

Finnick’s smirk becomes predatory, and his laziness becomes something else as he pulls my ankle, resting near his shoulder gently, moving me forward until I’m straddling his lap.

‘Annie, you should know I’m very persuasive.’  Finnick breathes before he kisses me.

It’s a flurry of movements, of a push and pull until we’ve found a steady rhythm, and we collapse into each other.

In this little bath tub, in the heat of May in New York, I have never felt more loved.

* * *

 

We can’t spend the entire summer in the bathtub; though Finnick made a very compelling argument, and eventually we have to get food.

It’s madness, going outside. Finnick takes the lead, pushing through the cameras like he does it every day.

The sunglasses we wear reflect the camera flashes.

‘Finn, Annie look at us’

‘Who you wearin’ Annie?’

‘C’mon’

Variations of that and other things are yelled at us, and we try to weave our way through the crowd to a cab, we need to get dinner.

We ignore them, until one yells ‘When you gonna ditch the ballerina Finn? You’re not a duo person.’

Finn stops, his hand is on the door of the cab and he turns and faces the paparazzi.

‘You don’t understand,’ Finnick says, his voice easy going and conversational, but there’s an edge to it, that’s rather transparent, ‘When Annie Cresta gives you a second chance, you never ever let go.’

There’s more questions, but they’re muted by the slamming of the cab door.

‘You need better security.’ Finnick tells me, ‘You only have one doorman.’

‘I never needed security before.’ I pointed out, ‘It’s only been bad since you decided to be my unofficial roommate.’

Finnick’s smirk is dangerous in its teasing. ‘Is that all I am to you Annie?’ I would have believed the hurt in his voice, if I didn’t know him.

‘No.’ I say seriously, ‘You also have good taste in Chinese takeout.’

Finnick laughs and kisses my palm.

‘But seriously, you need better security.’ Finnick says, ‘And we’re running out of space.’

‘My place is big enough for me!’

‘Well it’s Odesta now, so it won’t be just you.’ Finnick points out, ‘My place is bigger-‘

‘How many girls have you fucked in that place?’ I interrupt. ‘If we’re moving in together, either my place which is perfectly fine, or we find a new one.’

It’s silent in the car.

I guess we never talked about moving in together.

But, well, we already sleep together, and he has at least half of his clothes and all of his games, and movies and maybe a third of his books at my place.

So…

Maybe I was wrong?

‘I’ll call the real estate agent tomorrow.’ Finnick says in a low voice.

There’s this really small satisfied smile on his face for the rest of the night, and I bet it’s mirrored on mine.

* * *

 

 _‘For someone who was so against this marriage, you’re not really showing it.’_ Jo tells me, as Finnick pours over floor plans.

I would have gone with the first one, but Finnick says that it has to be right. There has to be a room for his office, a guest room, a library/game room because Finnick likes pool, and he will not leave his pool table.

I’m leaving the decision to him.

I told him I had to be able to get to school in under twenty minutes, that was my only rule.

‘It’s just more space.’

_‘Seriously you and Finn get to be all perfect fucking couple while I’m stuck twatblocked.’_

‘Huh?’

_‘Katniss.’_

‘The girl who may or may not be bi, who for sure has a boyfriend?’ I ask.

_‘Yeah.’_

‘How old is she?’ I ask, curious.

There’s not a big answer.

‘Jo!’

‘What’s up?’ Finnick asks, I put Jo on speaker.

‘Jo’s mad because Katniss isn’t answering her calls,’ I narrate. ‘But she may or may not be bi, definitely has a boyfriend, and because Jo won’t tell me, I’m guessing she’s underage.’

Finnick whistles. ‘Fuck Jo.’

I hit him. ‘That is not something to be impressed about.’

‘Jo that’s wrong.’

_‘Someone’s whipped Odair.’_

‘Annie’s really scary.’ Finnick winks.

Jo scoffs. _‘Please Annie couldn’t frighten a bunny.’_

‘Hey!’

_‘You’re really cute, Crazy, but come on in a fight you’d be useless. You could plié your way out.’_

My cheeks burn. Okay so I’m not the biggest, or the fastest, or the strongest. Hell I’m probably not even the underdog, I’m probably the underdog of the underdog.

But who said winning a fight was about that?

What about the politics? What about strategy? What about intelligence?

‘Honestly Jo?’ Finnick interrupts, ‘I would much rather go against you in a fight than Annie.’

_‘Because Annie would make you sleep on the couch.’_

‘No she wouldn’t. The woman carries mace and a taser. I’m not fighting her.’

I’m five foot, I need all the ammunition against anyone I can get.  Playing dirty doesn’t mean you can’t win.

‘Okay, look whether or not I can win a fight isn’t important.’ I say, ‘What’s important is Jo is in love with a girl who may or may not be legal. But has a boyfriend.’

‘Well obviously you have to get rid of the boyfriend.’ Finnick says.

‘She might not be a lesbian!’

‘ _You don’t kiss like that and consider yourself straight._ ’

‘Why are all the people I love idiots?’ I wonder.

‘Hopeless romantics.’ Finnick corrects, before he and Jo try to figure out this huge plan to make Katniss realize her boyfriend with the unfortunately feminine name is a douche, which we don’t know because we have met him, and come have amazing sex and fun and pho with Jo.

Who is stuck in the Hamptons.

With her parents.

Who thinks she is straight.

Now, does anyone else see the problem here?

Anyone, anyone?

Bueller?

Sorry, I was trying to be funny.

* * *

 

The phone call with Jo lasted about three hours, and in which I have to shoot down several ideas, including one with a cow, the other with the death of a cat, and skydiving, and I am tired.

So I’m reading in bed, and Finnick is sketching a really bad version of I suppose his dream house, and it’s quiet, an easy quiet that doesn’t happen a lot.

‘Do you think about the future?’ I ask, and Finnick looks up startled.

‘Yeah, course I do.’

The only reason why I ask, is because I don’t think I’d mind it. Spending all these nights in bed, falling asleep beside him, waking up beside him.

Being beside him, I wouldn’t mind that in my future.

It’s not as scary.

I mean it’s scary.

But it’s not like six months ago, when everything I felt for Finnick was hurt, betrayal and upset. He’s not the seventeen year old boy, I’m not the fifteen year old girl.

Holding on to anger is petty, and it just hurts.

And I’m the only one Finnick has. I’m his family contact, his emergency contact, number one in his speed dial, all of that and the fact that his twitter and Instagram biography mention me.

I don’t know how faithful Finnick will be with me, but I haven’t seen him with any other girl, and the only people who texts him are Gloss, Cashmere, Enboria , Jo and myself. It’s the benefit of the doubt, the idea that he’s serious about me.

And that he wouldn’t hurt me.

‘What do you see?’ I ask.

Finnick pauses, gathering his thoughts, and weighs whether or not to tell me certain thoughts. ‘Immediate or long term?’

‘Both.’

‘Immediate, a new place in the city. A wedding.  Moving out to California, and just going to Ireland and Spain when we have to.’

Finnick has always been a California boy, Ireland never suited him. He was too American, and even finishing high school and his bachelor’s in Europe couldn’t get the American out of him.

It’s the same with me. I’m not Spanish enough, I’m only half and that makes it hard.  I don’t have any cousins, so I don’t know how to be a proper Spaniard when I’m there, and it makes me look like a tourist.

It’s so frustrating.

‘Long term,’ Finnick starts and then stops. ‘Long term, four kids. Three boys, and one girl, just like you. A beach house somewhere there’s a great ballet scene. A lot of Monopoly games and…two fat cats, a golden retriever and a bunch of dead fish because Jonah keeps on forgetting to feed them. Soccer practise in the morning, and a shit ton of kale because your Mom thinks it will keep her young, and she insists on taking care of the boys, even though she should sit down.’

Finnick stops suddenly, as if afraid he’s said too much and he looks so endearing, and I’m a bit overwhelmed at this picture he’s painted in my head.

Sand on the floor, and shoes all thrown higgledy-piggeldy because no one but me ever puts things in the proper place, fights by the children over whose turn it is to load the dish washer, and the batteries are never in the remotes because it’s so much easier to steal those batteires than find new ones.

It’s this picture of domesticality.

And I have never wanted it before, not the way I do now.

I’ve thought about children, thinking I’d have one, maybe two when I get married to someone I tolerate, trust and hopefully love; but those were vague, abstract sketches, far away in a future I might never have, because I want to dance.

And having babies could ruin my career, and I was never too attatched to the idea of being a mother. Or getting married really.

My model was my parent’s marriage, which was dissolved before I was six.

But Finnick has given me this oil painting, living and breathing and I can see it so easily, like it’s already happened, that this was always going to happen and who am I kidding? I was always going to be with Finnick, this image of our future so self-assured in his head.

‘Fish are horrible starter pets.’ I say, and Finnick’s fear dissipates. ‘You can’t tell when they’re sick until they’re floating bottom up.  We’ll get him a hamster.’

Finnick’s cuddling me, and I’m curled up against his chest, the drawing and my book pushed to the sides of our bed.

‘He’ll never clean the cage.’ Finnick murmurs.

I kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seevikifangirl.tumblr.com


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Thea, for freaked out when I came up with this idea.
> 
> For Liana, who told me that she wanted Gale/Katniss
> 
> For Sara who listens to me rant.

Been a while bitches.

I know you missed me, but oh babe we all have to grow up sometime.

And maybe even the Santé Fe Ballerina and the Golden Boy of the West Coast can have a happy ending.

* * *

 

 

September comes, and Mamá is running around Finnick’s and my penthouse apartment like a chicken without her head. She keeps on showing Finnick new dress all lacy and in so many different shiloutes and he really doesn’t care at all.

It’s a hint, something subtle to figure out which sort of dress he will like for our wedding next July.

Mamá clicks her tongue in frustration, as Finnick is eyeballing the dresses in disdain. He really doesn’t like fashion at all, but he’s learning.

I’m flipping through TV, and I end up one Denise’s reality TV Show, it’s the season finale, and they’re recapping all the scandalous events, including our…exchange at Mags wake.

It was a disaster, but we combated it with an engagement party a week before the episode aired, with everyone invited and all of the people made it obvious with Gloss and Glimmer getting the hashtag “OdestaEngagmentParty” and “Finn&Annie5ever” trending. I think it was a competition.

Jo was there, without Katniss. Her attempt to seduce Katniss didn’t work, the new girl is still with Gale, the miner guy or whatever he does, and apparently happy.

She’s been pretty moody, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

I mean, I’m sorry you fell for a girl who likes boys?

Or alternately, because Jo insists that you don’t kiss back if you’re not attractive, and that kiss was “hot”-I wasn’t there, so I have no clue, I’m sorry Jo fell for a girl who isn’t going to cheat on her boyfriend.

But the thing is, I’m happy. I’m curled up on a couch, in a city I hated a year ago, next to boy who took my virginity, broke my heart and made me fall in love with him again.

And I think I’m happy.

Madly so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five months later, it’s done. All done.Annie and Finnick’s story is done. What’s left is maybe Katniss’s story, dealing with maybe falling in love with Jo, without growing Gale, and meeting this baker boy from the Upper East Side?
> 
> My tumblr is seevikifangirl

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, firstly the Spanish! 
> 
> So Odair is an Irish last name, and according to House of Names, Cresta is either Italian or Spanish. I decided to go with Spanish. Because of both Liana and Thea who can understand it.
> 
> At least I'm pretty sure Thea can.
> 
> So the Spanish may not be correct, as that is not a language I am comfortable with. 
> 
> This is a present for those three, and if it does not suit you, I'm sorry about that.
> 
> Happy New Year my darlings!


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